


a thousand pages (give or take a few)

by betweenthebliss



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically a Rom-Com, Book Nerds In Love, Books, Charles You Will Be Drunk, F/M, From Sex to Love, M/M, Rivalry, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles owns and runs a charming used book store in upstate New York. When a mysterious (and incredibly sexy) customer turns out to be the proprietor of another used book store opening up across town, Charles is torn between keeping his distance to keep his business afloat, and giving in to the steadily growing attraction between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. our aspirations are wrapped up in books

**Author's Note:**

> From the age-old kink meme prompt, here -- http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/2292.html?thread=1557236#t1557236. I want to extend huge thanks to all the people who commented on this when I posted it anonymously on the meme; rereading all that enthusiasm and love for the story was what got my mental engine turning on it again. I'm thrilled to report that I'm working on the next chapter, finally and at long last. 
> 
> Big thanks as well to my betas radiophile and ladysaraj, without whom this story would still be an unbetad mess in 49 parts on the kink meme. Title (of course) from the Beatles' Paperback Writer.

"Chaaarles!" 

Raven's voice penetrated down a hallway and through two doors, still loud enough to make Charles wince. He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting. Eventually-- "Chaaaaaarles!" she called again, drawing the vowel out even longer-- she would get tired of hollering and come speak to him in person.

"CHAAAAAAAARLES!" she shouted, at a pitch that threatened to shatter the windows. He was out of his chair and at the door before the echoes had entirely died away. 

"What is it, Raven!" he called back, some of his impatience bleeding into the words. "I told you I was trying to balance--"

"I need your help with the database, it's frozen again!" She sounded almost as exasperated as he felt, and Charles knew if he put her off she'd only make him regret it later. Running both hands through his hair, he came down the hallway from the office, letting his hand brush against the spines of the books as he went. The hallway, like every other wall inside Bindings, was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Some called it gloomy, musty, dim. Charles found it comforting. 

"Raven, I've told you several times, if it freezes just close the other programs--" He paused for a moment as he stepped out into the open area around the till, surveying the scene before him. 

Raven was perched on her little stool behind the counter, one knee drawn up to her chest, one hand on the computer mouse. Armando stood beside her, looking at Charles, one eyebrow raised. His entire body language telegraphed _I didn't do it._ And on the other side of the counter, turned half away from them, fingers drumming on the dark wood surface, was their customer.

And then he turned toward the sound of Charles' approach, and Charles quickly backtracked. Not their customer; their _extremely attractive_ customer. Tall and pale, coolly comfortable in a turtleneck and leather jacket, eyes blue and bored behind a pair of expensive-looking aviators. He looked metropolitan-- European-- decidedly out of place in this little suburb of Albany. His jaw, like all the other angles of him, was narrow and sharp, and just now it seemed like he was gritting his teeth.

 _Whoa._ Pasting on a smile and hoping it masked the flip-flop in his stomach, Charles came the rest of the way forward, stepping to Raven's side and putting his hands flat on the tabletop. "Hi there, sorry about this. Old system, you know, glitches happen." The man said nothing, just looked at Charles with an eyebrow raised, waiting. Charles looked away, down to the computer screen, which he realized immediately wasn't frozen at all. A blank notepad document was open on top of their checkout program, and in it Raven had typed _GET IT, GIRL._

Charles choked off a laugh, sounding strangled, and looked at Raven, who looked innocently back in mock confusion. "See, look, I'm doing everything right..." She trailed off and kept typing in the text box. _best ruse ever, right? anyway you need to get some, so get his number, for the love of god. :P_

Charles cleared his throat with a warning look at Raven, then leaned over and X'd the notepad window closed. He made a show of clicking a few things, then stood back and said, "Ah, there we are," giving a sheepish smile. He stepped back, letting Raven get on with actually doing her job, and it was only then that the other man spoke for the first time.

"Are you sure? I can come back for this." He waved his hand at the stack of books he was buying, his other hand still tapping an impatient tattoo on the counter. He didn't appear to be noticing anything around him, much less the three employees. 

Still, Charles persevered. Oftentimes disgruntled customers were just looking for a friendly chat to turn their day around, and being nice had never cost him anything. Especially not being nice to tall Saxon gods in bomber jackets. "No, it's fine now, promise," he said, sliding the pile over to Raven, who began typing in the numbers. While she did, Charles took the opportunity to scan the titles. _The Book of Daniel... Catch-22... The Big Sleep..._ He couldn't help himself; he tapped the Chandler with a fingertip. "If you like this one, get _The Long Goodbye_ next. It's--"

"I've read it," the other man replied in his clipped accent. Charles couldn't place it, which only made it more alluring, especially when he'd long since gotten used to being the only non-American in town. His mouth was flat as he went on, "I've read them all, actually. I--" he paused, an irritated silence, and went on, "I've moved recently, and some of my things were damaged. These are just-- replacements." 

Raven laid a hand on the last one as she picked it up. " _The Hobbit_?" she asked with her cute little smirk.

The man was unimpressed. "My daughter's favorite." He went into his pocket and handed Raven a credit card. "Now if you don't mind, sweetheart, I'm in a bit of a rush."

Before Charles could get offended on her behalf (he knew it was silly, but she was his sister and he didn't like anyone calling her pet names), Raven took the card and gave him a brilliant smile. "No problem, sweetheart," she replied cheerfully, swiping the Visa.

Strangely, her cheek was what earned her a smile, or the closest thing the man had come to displaying one. He took his card back with a quick flash of teeth, tucking it back into his pocket and accepting the bag with a nod. "Have a good day," Armando offered, the first thing he'd said the whole time. 

"Yeah, I'll do that," the guy said, shouldering his way out the door without so much as a backward glance.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Charles turned to Raven with a repressive glare. "I cannot believe you, Raven, that was utterly unprofessional and embarrassing."

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes and climbing down from the stool. "He was smoking hot, even if he was a dick. And at least he wasn't a _pretentious_ dick. We all know how you hate pretension," she teased, sliding around Charles and heading down the hall. 

Charles turned to Armando. "Little help here?" he asked, spreading his hands wide. 

Armando just snorted. "Maybe if she wasn't right." He picked up a stack of books (which he'd presumably been putting away before this had all started) and disappeared into the shelves.

"You're both fired," Charles called out, spinning around on the stool. 

"Whatever," they called back in unison. Charles looked down and hid a grin.

\---

The next day was the first Friday of the month. This was something of an event in the town of Barnes; all the local businesses would stay open a bit later than usual, hosting winetastings or live music or other events. It was a great way to get people out and about, and Bindings had taken to capitalizing on it by inviting well-known authors for signings and readings. 

This month it was a fantasy author Charles had heard of but never read anything by, though Hank assured him she would draw a crowd. He'd been skeptical, but looking around the shop, he had to admit Hank had been right. The first floor was full of people, most of whom were crowded around the platform listening to the reading, and every table in the little loft upstairs was full. 

"Good turnout," Raven observed, coming up beside him. 

"Yes," he agreed. "But next month we're getting someone I can carry on a conversation with for more than three minutes."

Raven grinned and tucked her arm through his. "Hoping to get lucky? I hate to break it to you, but Darwin and Tolkien are both dead, and you are definitely not Bill Bryson's type."

Charles reddened. "Can't a man compliment another man's way with words without it turning into--"

"Complimenting, in my experience, doesn't go on for half an hour at a time," Raven said, adamant, and was about to say more when another, deeper voice behind them interrupted. 

"Then whoever's been complimenting you hasn't been doing it right."

Charles and Raven both turned, startled, to find the stranger from the day before standing behind them. He looked even better than he had yesterday; a short-sleeved shirt just tight enough to show the lean lines of his body beneath it, and jeans that looked like they'd cost as much as all of Charles's wardrobe put together. Charles hoped to God he wasn't staring, but didn't really think he could help himself under these circumstances. 

Predictably, Raven recovered from her surprise first, while Charles fought to do something other than stand there gaping like a fish. "If you're offering a demonstration of how it's done, go right ahead," she replied, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder with a grin. "I haven't gotten well-complimented in ages."

The man gave a slight smile in return, more of a smirk than anything else. "I don't _compliment_ girls who are underage," he said, managing to play along with her innuendo while also giving the impression of patting her on the head. 

"I'm definitely over-age, buddy," she said, her expression and tone gone flat. "But not as over-age as you are, apparently." She looked him up and down, and that was when Charles realized it was time to step in. 

"Something we can help you with?" Charles offered a polite smile as he hooked his arm through Raven's again, shooting her a fast quelling look.

"Just stopping in," the other man replied with a shrug. "Heard you were having a guest reader, thought I'd come check it out." 

"Really?" Charles was surprised. "I wouldn't have pegged you as a fantasy reader."

Eyebrows went up, and the stranger chuckled. "I live to defy expectations. Though now that you mention it, I promised my daughter I'd bring her home something new. She's read _The Hobbit_ twenty times if she's read it once. Have any recommendations?"

Raven opened her mouth to say something, but Charles beat her to the punch. He couldn't say why; the man had asked for a recommendation, and-- based on what, how unfairly attractive he was?-- Charles really wanted to suggest something good. " _The Hero and the Crown_ ," he said quickly, "by Robin McKinley. Won the Newberry Award in 1985. I used to read it to her when she was little," he added, nodding at Raven with a sudden grin. "So I can't promise it'll make your daughter better behaved. But it's a great story."

Raven punched him in the shoulder. "I'll take it," the man said, badly masking a smirk, so Charles went, waiting until he was out of sight to rub the spot where she'd hit him. 

When he came back, Raven and the man were already at the till, and he came up just in time to hear her say, "...taking care of everyone. Thanks," she said as Charles handed her the book. 

As Raven was passing him the bag with his purchase, Charles decided not to forget his manners any more than he already had around this guy. He went back around to the front of the counter and stuck out his hand, looking up into the other man's (blue, blue, blue) eyes with his best charming smile. "I'm Charles Xavier, by the way. You said you were new here, so, welcome to Barnes." 

Their handsome customer took Charles's hand in his callused own and shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, Charles Xavier," he said. "Thanks for the warm welcome." His lips curved as he smirked at Charles one last time, still hanging onto his hand, then let go and turned to walk out the door.

As the door swung shut behind him, Raven whistled. "Wow. That is one smooth, sexy bastard." She grinned brilliantly, eyes fixed dreamily on the ceiling. "I love it when you get out-charmed."

"Be quiet," Charles said in what he hoped was a firm, repressive tone of voice. His hand was still warm from the other man's touch; he put both hands in his pockets and forced himself to focus on minding the store.

\---

"You are such a disappointment," Raven declared on Saturday morning, breezing in ten minutes late for her shift balancing a travel tray and a bag from Felicia's on one hand and texting someone with the other. 

"Good morning," Charles replied, lifting one eyebrow at her. 

"Honestly," she went on, plopping the bag down on his desk and unloading one of the lattes beside it. "It's been like, two whole days, and you haven't even asked me his name."

Charles felt his forehead furrow. "Whose name?"

Raven just stared at him flatly. "This. This is why you are so desperately single. Hot Non-Pretentious Dick, that's who! I had his credit card, and you haven't even asked me his name!"

"Maybe that's because I don't care to stalk my customers," he pointed out, sitting back in his chair with a little grin. 

"Oh whatever, it's because it didn't occur to you," she dismissed him with a wave, shrugging out of her jacket. "But fine, be that way. I'll just keep it to myself."

"Raven," Charles protested, but she was already leaving. 

"Have to open the store now, bye!" she called over her shoulder. 

Even if she was pretending to be cross with him, it was comforting to hear her going about their morning routine, humming to herself as she moved around. Charles wished he could have a little of that cheer for himself, but attempting to settle the shop's accounts always left him tied up in knots of anxiety. They were still turning a profit, but not much of one. Any mishap could set them back, and with the economy still struggling to revive itself after the recession, a setback could send them under if they weren't careful. 

The thought of losing Bindings, after he'd worked so hard to start it up, and worked even harder to keep it running-- it was unbearable, clenching in his stomach like nausea. And he knew it was silly, sentimental even, but he couldn't bear the thought of having to put his employees out of a job. Raven, he knew, would always be with him. And he was well enough off that he'd always be able to take care of them both. But what about the boys? Armando claimed to do all right on his own, but Alex had a kid brother to support, Sean didn't have any family this side of the Atlantic, and Hank paid as much in student loans every month as some people paid on their apartments. He couldn't just leave them to fend for themselves.

"We just need to grow a little bit this year," he muttered, writing the last check and signing it with a flourish. "Just a bit more, and we'll be fine."

"Talking to yourself again, boss?" Alex laughed as he came in to hang his stuff up. Tugging the headphones off from around his neck, he shoved them in his backpack and stuffed it and his skateboard in the closet. 

"Only way to get a smart answer around here," Charles replied with a long-suffering eyeroll. He held out a pile of envelopes, stamped and ready for the post office. "Would you run these across the street, please?"

"Sure thing," said Alex, grinning as he took the stack. 

After he was gone Charles picked up his latte and dug in the bag for whatever horrible sweet pastry Raven had brought him that day. "Blueberry?" he mused, inspecting it before taking a bite. "Blueberry," he repeated with a nod, taking another bite. "You must've forgotten to be put out with me when you stopped at Felicia's," he said to Raven as he came up to lean against the till counter. "You know I love the blueberry ones."

"Mm," she said noncommittally, "that or I was trying to butter you up for something."

"That's likely," he said skeptically. "What could you need to ask me that you'd worry I wouldn't say yes to?"

Before she could answer, though, the door chimed as Alex flew back in like a tornado, out of breath from jogging. "My God," he said, "I can't believe this, Mrs. Hall at the post office just told me--" he broke off, took a great gulping breath and looked at Charles, his face full of apprehension or panic or both. "There's another used bookstore opening in town. Next week, she said, they've already started moving in and unpacking and everything."

Charles's chest constricted, suddenly feeling bound as if he were held underwater. He felt his mouth drop half open, but his throat was dry; when he tried to say something, nothing came out. He swallowed the lump in his throat, shoved away the panic, and tried again. "What... why? Did she say, does she know anything? Who-- they must be from out of town, right? No one in town would... Oh God this is a disaster," he mumbled, turning to drop his head into his hands, his elbows on the counter. 

"She only said she'd met the owner," Alex said. "Said he came to give her his card, so I asked her to show it to me." 

"This could not happen at a worse time," Charles said into his hands. He heard Alex fumble in his pocket, the movement as he handed something to Raven.

Raven squeaked. Well, she made a sound that was something between a gasp and a cut-off squeal, alarming enough that Charles raised his head from his hands to look at her. She was bright pink from forehead to neck, staring at the card Alex had tossed down like it was going to bite her. 

"What?" Charles asked, confused.

Raven looked at him, eyes big as dinner plates. "It's him," she finally managed. "It's your Sexy Non-Pretentious Dick." She slid him the card, biting her lip. "I mean, it must be. I doubt there are two guys named Erik Lehnsherr hanging around..." 

She trailed off as Charles laughed. He knew it must sound as hollow as it felt. "No, I hardly think so. And I don't think he's 'my' anything, Raven." _Not even if I wanted him to be. Now he's just the competition._

\---

By unspoken agreement, all six of them hit the bar after the store was closed. Barnes had more than one bar, of course, but there was only one that they liked enough to go to regularly. It had been a stable in the nineteenth century, and the dark wood and exposed rafters made for a cozy atmosphere. Also the food was cheap and delicious, and Tuesdays were $2 pint nights, which in their collective opinion made it the only bar worth going to.

Charles held the door as the kids trudged in, and ordered three pitchers for the table they claimed. Behind the bar, Moira raised her eyebrows at him. "Rough day?"

"You could say that," he said, and told her about their new rivals. He didn't mention the fact that until they'd found out the man's profession (he barely refrained from saying _secret identity_ ), Raven had practically been pushing Charles into Lehnsherr's lap. That was just embarrassing, now, and he hoped they would all forget it shortly.

"I'll keep 'em coming," Moira told him, giving him a sympathetic smile. When she brought the pitchers over a minute later, she also had a huge basket of fries on the tray. "Here you go, guys," she said. "Drink up, I hear you need it." 

"You can say that again," said Sean, pouring everyone's glass full to the brim. He picked his up, said, "Cheers, dudes," and took a healthy chug. 

Charles raised his glass prepared to do the same, but Moira put a hand on his arm. "Nuh uh," she said. "This first." And she put a shot glass down in front of him. 

He eyed it; there were a few different colors layered in the glass, and he looked at her skeptically. "Really?"

She nodded, grinning. "Really. It's on the house, Charles, you can't say no."

"That's like, a rule or something," Alex added. "Can't say no to free booze."

Normally he wouldn't have done it. Shots weren't his style; Raven always teased him for being a senior citizen before he'd turned thirty-five, but that sort of partying wasn't his thing. Usually. Tonight, though... 

_Tonight I get drunk,_ he thought, and shook his head, and drank the shot. It slid down his throat with a sweet burn, a warmth that spread when it hit his stomach. "That was... actually very good," he said. "What's in it?"

Moira shook her head, grinning. "No way. Secret recipe. You want another one?" 

"Well I'd hate to disobey the rule," he said, giving a real smile for the first time all day. 

"Now drink that before she comes back," Sean said, pointing at the pint in Charles's other hand. 

\---

An hour later Charles's sleeves were rolled up, his top button undone, and he was listening with his chin on his hand as Raven argued with Hank about who was more of a visionary, Philip K Dick or William Gibson.

" _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_! How can you discount that, not only is it one of the best short stories ever, but it got turned into--"

"Your hard-on for Harrison Ford notwithstanding, you cannot cite Blade Runner as a reason he's amazing. He had nothing to do with the movie--"

"But if we're talking about forming the shape of science fiction--"

"I'm bored," Alex announced. He elbowed Armando and eyed him sidelong, then jerked his head towards the jukebox.

Armando had a way of understanding what Alex was saying when he wasn't actually using words. It was funny; Charles had only ever had that kind of closeness with Raven, and that was because they'd grown up together. The boys' friendship was an odd one-- skater punk Alex and quiet, bookish Armando-- but Charles approved. He liked seeing his proteges close, liked knowing they thought of the store and their fellow book nerds as family, the way Charles did.

"You're being maudlin, aren't you," Raven said, poking him hard in the ribs. 

"No I'm not," he protested, dropping his hand to the table and laughing. He felt warm, especially at the back of his neck. "I'm just..." he trailed off, squinting as he tried to think of the word. "No, alright, I'm being maudlin," he admitted when no substitution presented itself.

Hank snorted. "Yeah, you and the rest of us. It's not like you're the only one with an excuse to want to get wasted, Charles."

"I know," Charles said, eyebrows drawing together as he frowned. "That's why I'm so mad." 

It came out sounding plaintive, even he could hear that, but it must have sounded pathetic as well, because Raven tucked her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder. "I know," she said softly. 

"We'll be alright," Charles said determinedly. He couldn't bear to hear her sounding so worried, to know it was him she was worried about. "I know we will."

"Optimist," Armando accused, but he was grinning. He and Alex had come back from the jukebox looking pleased, which Charles was dimly worried about, but he was too drunk to pay attention for long. Whatever had been in Moira's secret recipe shots had given everything a pretty glow, and when he moved he felt distant from his body. _Definitely drunk,_ Charles thought. 

"Me too," Raven sighed, making him realize he'd said it aloud.

"Drink more," Sean advised, tipping back the end of a beer and reaching for the pitcher to pour himself another. 

"Drink more," Moira agreed, walking up with a tray full of shot glasses, brimming full. 

Alex frowned. "We didn't order those," he said, as Raven picked one up and sniffed it. 

"Whiskey," she said. "Definitely didn't order those."

"I know," said Moira, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder. "He did."

And Charles knew, somehow, who would be sitting at the bar where Moira pointed. He looked, and Erik Lehnsherr gave a little wave, one eyebrow quirked and the hint of a smirk on his face. 

"Dick," Raven said, loud enough that he could probably hear. Alex snickered, Sean joined in, and then all of a sudden the jukebox belted out the familiar piano chords of Cee-Lo Green. Alex and Armando whooped, victorious, and stood up, started dancing at the table, shouting out the words to the song. Hank laughed so hard he snorted again, but then Raven dragged him up and hung onto his hand while she shimmied against him. Sean needed no encouragement; he grabbed Moira's hands and started swinging her around, all of them soon singing at the top of their lungs.

Charles was still looking at Lehnsherr, the alcohol haze burning in his stomach making him feel dizzy, while Lehnsherr just looked back. _Fuck you,_ Charles thought distantly, the song and his friends singing it a raucous echo to his thoughts. Tearing his gaze away, he found himself standing up without consciously deciding to do so. He picked up one of the shot glasses from the tray and held it out over the middle of the table, just waiting. Hank got it first, and dropped Raven's hand to lean in and pick up a glass of his own. Raven, and then the rest of them followed suit, and when they all held a glass they leaned in and clinked them together. 

"To us," he said, grinning, and tossed the shot back in one go. It was a smash hit; the others shouted their approval, drank down their shots, and continued shouting. Raven was up on her chair dancing with her hair flying about her face, the boys bouncing around her like a small tornado of sound, and in the midst of it all Charles, exhilarated and laughing, turned back to Lehnsherr and raised two fingers in his direction. The man was obviously not American; he'd know what it meant.

Sure enough, Lehnsherr's mouth thinned out even more than before, and his shoulders hitched in what was nearly a shrug. Then Sean grabbed Charles and spun him around to dance with Moira, and by the next time he thought to look over, Lehnsherr was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Belle & Sebastian.


	2. this job doesn't make sense in the morning light

Charles wouldn't talk about it the next day. Well, he spent most of the next day hung over, but the day after that he decided to pretend the thing at the bar hadn't happened. He would be the first to admit he didn't deal well with embarrassment; he was too much of a nerd to ever find humor in being made to feel ridiculous, and that was certainly the word for how he felt about that Saturday night. 

He was determined to put Lehnsherr out of his mind, and focus all his energy only on the store. Which worked wonderfully for almost a week, until Charles went into the sandwich shop down the block for lunch and saw a flyer taped to the inside of the door. _come to **Brand -new; books**_ , it said, _grand opening saturday the 23rd._ And oh, he got the pun, and wasn't it _cute_. He rolled his eyes and made a sound of derision. He wished he could hate the man less for the cummings reference, but the fact that the flyer was all in lowercase except for the name of the store made him reassess the "non-pretentious" part of Lehnsherr's nomenclature among the Bindings staff.

Though lately, Charles reflected with a small smile, they'd been referring to the man more often than not with a catalogue of four-letter words.

He took the flyer with him, and back at the shop he laid it out in front of Hank. "What do you think?" he asked.

Hank scanned it, chewing on his lip. "They have a coffee bar too? And-- and comics? Great." He looked up at Charles, wary confusion written all over his face. "Catering to a larger audience, I guess... That's gonna be hard to maintain, though."

Charles shrugged. "We can only hope so." 

When Raven saw it, she had little to say. She sat with her feet up on Charles's desk, curling her lip in disgust at the flyer as she read it. Then she turned that unnerving glare of hers full force on Charles. "You're going, right? I mean, you have to go. Or at least send one of us, but... you should go."

Charles was surprised. "Go? Why would I?"

Raven looked as if that should have been obvious. "To scope it out! See what it's like, the atmosphere, you know? Shop it, so we can figure out how to beat it."

He thought about it for a moment, turning the idea over in his mind. "I suppose... know thy enemy, yes?" Charles didn't like the feeling that anyone was his enemy. He wasn't a mobster or a superhero; he was a bookshop owner, for God's sake. He had never done anything to deserve an enemy, except now it seemed one had landed at his feet unlooked-for. It was unnerving, and he wished he could simply ignore the fact that the threat looming over his success and happiness had a face and a name. 

"Yes," Raven agreed firmly. She tossed the flyer on the desktop between them. "And besides-- it's no more than he did to us, at first. He just didn't tell you it's what he was doing." Her tone made it clear what she thought of that sort of subterfuge.

"Alright," Charles said. "I'll go." It was a smart idea, and there was honestly nothing diabolical about it. But he still couldn't shake the feeling he was doing something off-colour, something he shouldn't be caught doing.

\---

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Raven came into the office and stopped abruptly, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline. 

Charles looked down at himself. "It's the same thing I've been wearing all day!" Blue shirt, grey trousers, black shoes. Good colours on him; she hadn't had a problem with them earlier.

"That's exactly what I mean, Charles," she said, giving him a look of fond exasperation and starting to rummage through the closet. "You can't go to the grand opening looking like the absent-minded professor. You have to look sharp-- people know who you are, you don't want to let this guy upstage you."

"It's a good thing I know how smart I am," Charles remarked, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Otherwise you'd have me convinced I'm quite dim."

"Well someone has to keep you honest," she said, emerging with an armful of clothes. "Pants off-- sorry, _trousers_ ," she said, pointing, and handed him a pair of jeans. 

"It's also a good thing no one ever comes back here but the few of us," he said as he pulled them on. "Otherwise I'd be quite--"

"Put this on," Raven directed, talking over him, and handed him a vest that had probably been sitting back there for months, somehow magically free of wrinkles.

"Raven, I never wear this," he sighed, but he buttoned it anyway.

"Yeah, more fool you. It makes you-- oh, what's an appropriately snooty word," she mused, tapping her chin with a finger in mock speculation, then pointed at him and said, "Debonair. That's it. Debonair. Or hot, if we're speaking real English and not the hoity-toity Oxford kind."

"Yes, I understand," Charles said quellingly. "And alright, I shouldn't look shabby, but debonair? I didn't think this was that kind of spy mission."

"It is. You have to blind them with your stupid British charm and ability to wear a waistcoat like it's 19-fucking-35. Then they won't notice you taking notes on everything they do." Raven hopped up to steal the empty space on the desk, crossing her ankles and looking pleased with herself. "Ya look good, kid," she said, her mouth twisting around a Bogart accent and reaching out to tweak his collar.

Charles looked in the mirror behind her, and had to admit he did look good. "Don't ever become evil," he told her, squeezing her shoulder. "You'd take over the world far too quickly for my taste."

"Nah," she said, grinning. "I'm not organized enough to be the mastermind. I could totally be the hot sidekick though."

"Get to work on that." He backed toward the door, grinning, and gestured vaguely at her midsection. "Something in blue spandex, I think. Just the ticket."

She pulled a face at him and waved him at the door. "Go. We'll see you when you come back."

Sean was at the till when Charles went past, holding open Homer's _Iliad_ in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He waved without looking up. "Kidnap him if you get a chance. He can't run a business if he's tied up in the basement of ours."

Charles decided escape was smarter than trying to find an appropriate answer to that, and fled out the door. 

\---

Brand -new; had taken up residence in the first floor of a building that had been a hotel in the thirties. Big windows, high ceilings; it was beautiful inside. Charles was hardly agoraphobic, but it was strange not to see bookshelves reaching to the ceilings, strange not to feel the hush and whisper of turning pages permeate the entire place. The music piped through the speakers was quiet, a man's voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar. He had followed a group of people in, and now he ducked into one of the rows of shelves, pretending to browse. 

Everything looked new; the shelves, the carpet under his feet, the chairs placed here and there throughout. Charles didn't want to think about the kind of money Lehnsherr must have spent to buy all this. At the far corner facing the street stood the espresso bar and a few small tables and chairs. Charles passed it by; he had nerves enough without adding coffee to them. Toward the back he could see the sign hanging down that said **records** , and another one that said **comics**. He gave those areas a miss as well, and turned into the classics section, possibly thinking of Sean's recent obsession with the Greeks. 

He had a well-used copy of Catullus in one hand and Straton's anthology in the other, his eyes not on either book but scanning the room, when a familiar voice spoke from behind him. "See anything you like?"

Charles turned, startled and hating it, hoping he wasn't blushing. "Not yet," he said, keeping his voice cool. He was inclined to say more, but made himself stay silent. Lehnsherr had his arms folded and his eye contact didn't waver; he was assessing Charles as blatantly as possible. Charles was almost tempted to ask if _he_ saw anything he liked.

"Did you come here to shop?" Lehnsherr asked. "Or to spy?"

Stung, Charles put both books down on the shelf and stuck his hands in his pockets, his chin lifting as his posture straightened. "You mean as you did to us?" he retorted. Adrenaline threaded through him, making his fingertips buzz warm with the urge to move. Confrontation was not a comfortable arena, but he stood his ground.

The steel-grey eyes on his narrowed. "I did no such thing," he said. 

"Really," Charles said. _I believe that about as much as I believe the moon's made of green cheese._ "Well, forgive my presumption." He knew he didn't sound repentent, and didn't much care. "In any case, I saw the flyer around town and was curious to see the place."

"And what do you think?" Lehnsherr spread his hands wide, inviting Charles to look around.

"It's very... modern," he said. It wasn't exactly a compliment. "You certainly know how to create an atmosphere. I think you'll have no problem drawing customers." He was proud of himself for saying that without flinching, even though it was hard to admit. _Why here?_ he wanted to ask. _Why did you have to move here?_ Instead he nodded toward the back of the shop, where the sign proclaiming **mysteries** was hung. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go peruse your Poe."

"Xavier," Lehnsherr said, a note of urgency in his tone. Charles turned back, eyebrows raised, his face a careful blank. Lehnsherr just looked at him for a second, the assessment in his eyes giving way to something else, something Charles couldn't read. It made him tense, warmth creeping up the back of his neck, want and attraction pulling at him, and he swallowed hard to dispel the feeling. Then : "Thanks for coming," Lehnsherr said, and turned away before Charles could respond.

Charles went and stood in front of the mystery section for ten minutes without really seeing what was in front of him. He was unsettled, uncertain of how to respond to the way Lehnsherr had acted. Claiming he hadn't come to Bindings under false pretenses, then looking at Charles that way; his body still felt like it was humming, the fight-or-flight response not entirely dissolved. _Though in this case it's more like flight-or-fuck,_ he thought, mentally rolling his eyes at himself. _Stupid. Can't let myself get tangled up like that. He's gorgeous, but I can't afford to be off my game._

He started walking back to his own shop, wondering if he had actually gained any worthwhile information to give to the others, or if he'd only succeeded in confusing himself even more.

\---

By the time a month had passed, Charles was beginning to contemplate-- not in a serious way, of course, but in fantasy, the way one contemplates time travel or what life is like aboard the starship Enterprise-- packing up all his books and all his friends and moving to Alaska. Or Canada; Vancouver was good, very liberal, it would suit them all very well, what with national health care and equal marriage rights. There were a lot of upsides to Canada, namely that if they moved there, he wouldn't be tripping over Erik Lehnsherr every time he went about his business in town.

It was awkward enough the first time he went into Felicia's for his morning coffee and almost gasped aloud at the sight of Lehnsherr ahead of him in the queue. He quickly dug out his cell phone and pretended to be texting someone as the other man turned away with his coffee in hand. Still worse when it was the deli, and he had to make dedicated conversation with the butcher so as to deny Lehnsherr the opportunity to make small talk. 

The next time it was the farmers' market on Saturday morning; he came around the corner of a booth to hear that abrupt accent, now frighteningly familiar, as Lehnsherr talked with someone from the Salisbury Dairy about yogurt. He thought he escaped by going down another row, but ten minutes later as he was buying a bunch of carrots there was the voice at his elbow again. 

"You do know it's a myth that carrots make your eyes better." Charles didn't need to turn to see the smirk; he could hear it in Lehnsherr's voice.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with my eyes," he said, wondering if it sounded defensive. 

"Not now, maybe. Give it a few more years of squinting at the fine print."

"I'll keep that in mind in a few more years," Charles said, taking his change from the man at the booth and turning away. He was half afraid Lehnsherr would try to keep talking to him, but thankfully he was left alone.

It was awkwardness more than anything else; Charles hated talking to someone when he knew they were only having the conversation for the sake of appearances. And what else could it be? Lehnsherr didn't want open animosity between them, though he obviously knew Charles and his crew had no love for him and his. Charles was only too happy to oblige, but it seemed the other man couldn't be content with pretending to be strangers. 

So he made polite conversation whenever necessary, and avoided it whenever he could. And kept telling himself, as if repetition could force it to become truth, that eventually he would stop finding the man so arrestingly attractive. Eventually familiarity would breed contempt. He refused to contemplate still going weak in the knees six months from now every time Lehnsherr appeared without warning.

\---

"Don't forget to bring back the dates for the estate sales," Hank told him for the third time, scribbling on a post-it note and shoving it inside Charles's date book.

"And will you please do something fun while you're down there?" Alex griped from where he leaned on one of the shelf ladders. "Seriously, man. New York City. See a show. Get laid. Something." Armando elbowed him hard in the ribs, and Charles laughed. 

"Much as I appreciate the sentiment, Alex, I think I'm going to be far too busy. The show is only two days, and I have to see as many dealers as possible."

"Well, at least order decent takeout," Raven said, holding out his jacket. "Don't just go by what the hotel has in the desk drawer."

"What would I do without the lot of you," Charles said dryly.

"Die alone, starved and entirely without entertainment," she replied sweetly, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Now go."

Waving good-bye to them all, Charles went. 

The drive down to the city was long, and gave him a lot of time to think. He had decided to go to this convention-- covering everything from rare book sales to antiques and collectors-- as a way to see what other avenues there might be for Bindings to grow its business. Armando had suggested putting in a coffee bar, but Charles had veoted it. "We don't have the space," he'd said, when what he meant was _I'm not doing anything Lehnsherr has done first._ They had gotten by for years doing what they did best: getting books for people that wanted them, and giving a home to books that people didn't want anymore.

Well, now they could give a home to really old books too. They'd done some trade in antiques all along-- most used book stores did-- but that had mostly been by request; if this trip turned out well, they might be able to make a name for themselves as traders of antiques and rarities. People would drive all over upstate New York for antiques, and estate sales could be a gold mine, especially in the wealthier areas.

He spent most of the drive musing to himself, with no real result except that by the time he arrived at his hotel he felt ready to go to sleep. The convention would start bright and early in the morning, so it wasn't the worst idea ever. He did as he'd been instructed, and ordered good takeout based on the recommendation of the valet who parked his car (daal and masala from a few blocks away, and it was delicious) and fell asleep to a marathon of The Office.

In the morning Charles felt better than he had in weeks, and arrived at the convention ready to work. He spent the morning visiting the vendors who dealt specifically in rarities, talking to them about how they did their business, and ended up with a tiny stack of business cards. At lunch he sat with a few other buyers, mostly from antique houses, and listened to them talk shop. Afterward he gave himself leave to wander a bit, and see what caught his eye.

He wasn't expecting for the first thing that caught his eye to be a familiar face. It wasn't a face he could put a name to, but even just a glimpse through the crowd was enough; the young man's height set him apart, and once Charles caught a good look at him, he was in no doubt. One of Lehnsherr's employees was here, clearly on his behalf. It was enough to set Charles's blood boiling, and he stood still for a moment, watching him go. _What the hell?_ he thought in despair. _Everything I do, he has to do as well._

He was struck for a moment with the idea to follow the man around, see who he visited and what he seemed to be doing. But he discarded it quickly. _He'll recognize me, and then I'll seem even more of a fool._ He was grateful that at least the few other times he saw Lehnsherr's man it was from enough of a distance that he could turn away before he was seen. 

That night Charles was restless. He knew it was a futile anger; he could no more control Lehnsherr conducting his business than he could make the man leave Barnes entirely, no matter how much he might wish to. But mixing that with the anxiety and fear for his business, the looming shadow of frustrated dreams, wondering what he would do if they were forced to close... He was full of nerves, unable to settle, and so he decided (though he would never admit to having thought of it this way) to take Alex's advice and go out. It was New York; there had to be a hundred bars within walking distance of his hotel. He changed into a t-shirt and left.

On the street he felt more easy than he had cooped up inside. He put on his best charming smile and begged a cigarette off a girl that (in his opinion) barely looked old enough to be smoking it, then walked until he saw a likely looking pub to duck into. He ordered a beer, started talking to the first person that struck up a conversation with him, and was soon drunk enough that he forgot to be worried about anything remotely relating to his life back in Barnes. 

He knew he ought to feel more guilty about forgetting. But for one night, Charles thought he had earned a respite from responsibility. That thought carried him through the rest of the evening, through many more rounds with the crowd at the pub, then out the door when they dragged him across the street to a dance club where he lost track of time entirely. He had a moment of clarity while dancing, pressed between a pretty girl and an equally pretty man, that he would not remember either of their names in the morning. Then he decided he didn't give a damn. 

_Just this time,_ he thought dizzily to himself. _Tonight it doesn't matter what I do. I can go back to boring old Xavier tomorrow._

\---

When he opened his eyes in the morning, he immediately regretted it, and squeezed them shut again. Then, as if on cue, his alarm started to go off. He rolled over, cursing, and switched it off, looking at the time. Less than four hours since he'd stumbled back here, and less than forty minutes until the convention opened its doors for day two.

"Fuck," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and swinging to a sitting position. "Okay... note to self... next time I say 'arse it' and throw responsibility out the window, make sure I can sleep through regretting it the next day." 

A shower refreshed him, but did little to dull the pounding in his head. He packed up his things in a stupor and went down to the continental breakfast, where he prodded at some eggs with a fork while demolishing two cold bagels with butter and jam. Suitcase in the car, he stopped at Starbucks for a coffee, hoping it would make him a bit more human.

By lunchtime, Charles's headache had only gotten worse. He was fairly certain he'd spoken to everyone in the room, some of them possibly twice. He knew he should talk to Raven before leaving early, though, so he ducked out into a quiet hallway to call the shop.

"Bindings, this is Raven," she answered.

"It's me," he said.

"Guess you took Alex's advice, huh," she replied. "You sound hungover as shit."

"I feel hungover as shit," he admitted. "And I think I've spoken to everyone who can help us."

She laughed. "What, you want my permission to come home early?" 

"Well," he said, "yes, basically."

She laughed again. "Oh, big brother, you're lucky I like you."

He took that for the acquiescence it was, and was about to say good-bye when he remembered. "Oh. One of Lehnsherr's people was here. The tall bloke with the long hair."

"No way!" she gasped. "Shut up, did you talk to him?"

"No, what was I going to say? Stay out of New York City while I'm here?" He was already walking back toward the car park.

"Well, it's not a bad opening line!" 

"Raven," he chided her. "I have to be nice."

"Well I don't have to be," she grumbled. "Next time I see him I'm gonna shove my boot up his--"

"I'm hanging up now," he told her, laughing. 

"Fine. See you for dinner?"

"Wouldn't miss it." He said good-bye and got in the car, taking a breath to steady himself before braving the drive through the city. "See, boring old Xavier, completely back to normal," he said to himself, starting the engine with a rueful smile. 

\---

When he walked into the store that evening, Alex took one look at him-- sunglasses at four o'clock in the afternoon, showing stubble from yesterday's shave, wearing a sheepish smile-- and whistled. "Damn. You actually listened to me, didn't you?"

"Well," Charles said, but Alex shook his head. 

"Nuh uh. You haven't looked simultaneously this hung over and this relaxed in like... I don't even know. Since that blond chick with the two different colored eyes. You got laid, didn't you?"

Charles knew he was blushing. "Not exactly."

Alex's face gave Charles the distinct impression he was being laughed at. "Well, you got _something_ ," he said.

"And what that something was is none of your business," Charles said, trying to hold onto some semblance of dignity, and fled into his office.

He shut the door behind him and flung himself into the chair, pulling off the sunglasses and tossing them on the desk. He ran his hands over his face and willed the flush in his cheeks to recede. He didn't know what he was so mortified about; it wasn't as if he hadn't heard enough of his friends' stories of one night stands. But though he thought of them as his friends, he knew they looked up to him, as their boss if nothing else. He wanted to be worth that esteem.

Raven would say that Charles liked to think of himself as incorruptible, completely noble. Whether she was right or not, Charles could certainly agree that there had been nothing noble about his behavior the night before. The club, the liquor; the way the other man's hand had rested, casually possessive, on his hip as they danced; the sharp smile, the confidence, _Come outside for a smoke._ It had been so easy, drunk and giddy as he was, to let himself be led out of the streetlight, into the shadows, and not to care what happened after. 

There were a lot of words one could apply to getting one's cock sucked in an alley beside a dance club at three in the morning, but Charles didn't think "incorruptible" was one of them. He supposed he should be grateful there wasn't more to tell. 

He'd been so drunk he only remembered it in flashes anyway-- soft dark hair between his fingers, a jolt of lust at the weight of another body against his own, the graceful way the other man sank to his knees before him, his own low groan at the shocking wet heat of his mouth. He remembered something else, too, though he'd have died rather than admit it. Toward the end, close to coming, too wrecked to control himself, he let himself imagine the hands, the mouth on him belonged to someone more familiar, someone more forbidden and far more alluring. Lehnsherr's face leapt into his mind, the smug smirk and penetrating eyes; Charles thought of Lehnsherr's hands on his skin, his body pressing him into the wall, into a bed, hard and demanding and completely fucking wrong, and the world behind his eyes exploded as he came hard enough to see stars.

Afterward he'd stumbled back to his hotel room berating himself, guilty and still flushed with the heat of it, of what had happened and what he'd only wished had happened. _What is wrong with me?_ Charles had wondered, too drunk to understand anything but the need to sleep it off. He remembered thinking, as he shut off the light, that in the morning everything would make more sense. That hadn't quite happened as he'd wanted it to, but at least he'd moved past wondering what the hell he'd been thinking, and settled on more or less pretending the whole thing had never happened.

He had had his fun, and had certainly enjoyed it. But now he was back to work, and work he must, harder than ever if he wanted to keep his customers, his store, and everything else that mattered to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two chapters for tonight; more coming up as I work through my beta notes and edit. :) This title from the Eastern Conference Champions.


	3. all we gotta do is be brave and be kind

Dreadful hangovers and walks of shame aside, it turned out that the antiques convention had been a worthwhile investment of Charles's time. They made out lucky at a few estate sales over the next month, and entered October on an upswing. Christmas was naturally a big time of year for retail-- he wasn't worried about that. It was how they did in the new year that would really determine the future of Bindings, so Charles was determined to get a head start and make this the best Christmas they'd ever had. 

Charles also loved autumn; Raven's birthday was fast approaching, he loved the temperature and the changing leaves, and he had a fondness for Halloween that probably should have embarrassed him to admit to. He already liked to walk around the city, and in the fall he loved it even more. The small park on Third Street was his favorite-- surrounded by wrought-iron gates and full of benches to get comfortable on, it was the perfect place for a little peace of mind. 

One morning he got up early and took his breakfast there to eat while he read. He was halfway through Kingsolver's _The Lacuna_ , and wholly enraptured by it. So much so, in fact, that he didn't notice someone standing beside him until that someone cleared his throat, and Charles looked up to see Lehnsherr squinting down at him. 

"Morning," he said neutrally. 

"It is," Lehnsherr agreed, curt as ever. His eyes darted between Charles and the bench beside him, looking uncomfortable; only when Charles realized he was also holding a coffee cup and a bag from Felicia's did it occur to him he might not be the only one with the idea to eat breakfast al fresco. "I don't mean to intrude," Lehnsherr said, "but I was already walking over here when I realized it was you, and then I didn't want to look like I was avoiding you by turning away. So." He gestured to the bench beside Charles's. "Do you mind if I sit? If you do I'll leave, you were here first."

It was the most Charles had heard him speak in one go since they'd met, and he seemed sincere enough, even if he obviously felt as awkward as Charles did. It was a nice change; he didn't think the man could be ruffled by anything. He shook his head, nodding at the bench. "Please, be my guest." He decided not to comment on _didn't want to look like I was avoiding you,_ if only because he was certain if he did it would end with him saying _I'm the one who's been avoiding you._

He tried to go back to his reading, but awareness of Lehnsherr's presence less than five feet from him made it difficult. Especially when he looked over and saw the man was reading _Catch-22_ , the very copy he'd bought at Bindings when he arrived in town. Charles recognized the worn spine, the faded spot right over the _22_. "So you weren't kidding about your books being damaged," he blurted out, wishing even before the words were done leaving his mouth that he could snatch them out of the air.

Lehnsherr gave him an odd, flat look. "No, I wasn't," he said. "I told you, I didn't go to your shop under false pretenses."

"Asking for a recommendation for your daughter?" Charles reminded him. "Seems a bit superfluous to me." 

Lehnsherr let out an audible breath, replaced the scrap of cardboard he'd been using as a bookmark, and turned towards Charles on the bench. "I've recommended her everything I know," he said. "Young adult literature isn't my forte. And besides, she'd rather it came from someone not her father." His expression made it clear he did not want to be having this conversation, which perversely made Charles that much more determined to have it.

"Then why not say who you were? Right away, first time you came in." That still rankled, though he knew how childish it was.

"The first time I came in I was tired and hungry and had just discovered that some moron from the moving company had packed a candle inside a box of our favorite books, which were then entirely covered in wax when we unpacked them. I think you would have been fairly irate yourself, no?"

Charles was silent. Of course he would be. If it had been his things, Raven's things-- he thought of the Shakespeare he'd given her almost a decade ago, how devastated she'd be if it were ruined. Of course he'd run out for a replacement as soon as possible. 

"Yes," he admitted, sounding stiff and reluctant. Then he remembered, and added, "But what about the second time?" He made eye contact, hoping to read more in the man's face than he was saying with words.

It was funny, almost; Lehnsherr looked away, not flushed but clearly chagrined, then back to Charles with a defensive set to his jaw. "I was curious," he said, as if daring Charles to challenge him. "I wanted to take your measure, see how you worked. How good you were at what you did, how much you enjoyed it. But I wasn't thinking of competition, or not entirely of it." He took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. "You don't believe me, naturally. I understand."

Charles bit off replying that Lehnsherr didn't understand the slightest thing about him. He was riled up again, ruffled by Lehnsherr's proximity and the prickliness of their conversation, just praying it didn't show. He didn't want it to be obvious how easy it was to get to him. "I don't disbelieve you," he said. "I just think it's odd. But it's rather a moot point now, isn't it?" He tried on a thin smile. "Besides, I'm hardly in a position to judge your actions. I drunkenly flipped you off in the middle of a crowded bar, remember?"

The smile that curled Lensherr's mouth was devastatingly bright, the first real grin he'd seen the man give. It didn't soften his face so much as transform it; the hard lines yielded, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time he looked neither formal nor formidable, only human. _And beautiful,_ Charles's brain supplied, as if he hadn't been thinking that already. 

"Oh, I remember. But I suppose we can't all be nice drunks," Lehnsherr said, the hint of a laugh in his voice. 

Charles grinned back, trying to look remorseless. "Most of us can't. If my staff is anything to go by, it's a ratio of about one to five."

That smile again, putting a hot twist in the pit of Charles's stomach. But whatever Lehnsherr had been about to say next was interrupted by the clock tower chiming the hour; it was ten o'clock already. Time for Charles to head to the store to open up, and apparently he wasn't the only one. 

" _Tempus fugit_ ," Lehnsherr said, standing. He was back to the cool professional Charles knew, aloof and unreadable. "See you later, Xavier," he said as he turned away. 

Charles didn't reply. The only response to that he had was _Call me Charles,_ which was... well, not what he ought to want to say. 

It was the first time it occurred to Charles that he might already be weakening. It terrified him, not least because he had no earthly idea how to stop it. _Attraction is one thing,_ he told himself as he walked, _but developing a crush is something else altogether._ He trusted his self-control, his ability not to show what he was thinking. But he would far rather not be in a position of needing self-control at all.

\---

The phone rang five times before Charles decided no one out front was going to pick it up. "Bindings, this is Charles." 

"Charles, hello, it's Ororo Monroe," said the voice on the other end, and Charles felt his face light up in a grin.

"Ororo, thank you for calling back so fast," he said, scrambling as he talked for the piece of paper he'd had in his hand when he'd called her that morning. "I have a list here of books I'm curious about, or my customers are."

"So you have been having success then," she said, the smile sounding in her voice.

"Some," Charles admitted. "There are some collectors locally, but I've actually been in touch with some buyers and antique shops from further upstate. I'm hoping if I can come through for them, word of mouth might help keep me going." He didn't mind sharing his thoughts with Ororo; she'd been one of the most frank and open people he'd spoken to in New York, and had proven a reliable contact since. She'd given him quite a bit of sound advice thus far, for which he was beyond grateful.

"Well, give me your list, and I will see what can be done." 

He read off the titles and she wrote them down, telling him straight off that she had two in her possession that she would be happy to sell him and put in the mail the next day. When they'd finished he was prepared to say goodbye and hang up; Ororo was usually pressed for time, and not inclined to small talk. But instead of saying good day, she hesitated.

"Usually I do not do this," she said, "but I like you, Charles, and so I will act toward you as I would a friend, even if it hurt my business a little." She went on before Charles, suddenly fearful, could ask what she meant. "I had a call today from a man named Janos, who works for a different bookseller in your town. Brand New Books?"

Charles had an uncomfortable sensation like swallowing an ice cube whole.

"He was interested in some titles... I asked him about it some, he said he'd been at the show where you and I met... I'm afraid it looks as if their shop is attempting to do exactly what you are, Charles." 

In the brief moment of silence after Ororo finished speaking, Charles realized he had gotten to the point where it no longer surprised him to find out that Lehnsherr's thoughts ran parallel to his own. They were obviously both good businessmen, and Charles knew by now that trying to paint Lehnsherr as some evil mastermind was doing them both a disservice. He was just a man, same as Charles himself. It made him impossible to hate.

"And you're telling me this because... you're looking out for me?" The fist of panic around his heart loosened a little, and Charles smiled, bemused but gratified. Grateful, actually. "Are you also telling me you're not going to give him what he wants?"

Ororo chuckled. "I'm saying I'm giving you what you want first."

"Thanks, Ororo. I really appreciate it," Charles said. 

"Don't mention it. Just make sure I don't regret helping you. I would not want word to get around that I backed the wrong horse."

"Yeah," said Charles, "I wouldn't want that either."

\---

When Charles let himself into the park gate that Sunday and saw Lehnsherr already sitting on a bench, he was barely surprised. He wondered briefly if he should be troubled by how easy it was to hide his attraction, whether that meant he had accepted it and moved on from it, or if it just meant he was really repressed. He went over and sat on a bench nearby, not trying to get Lehnsherr's attention but not avoiding it either, as he read and sipped his coffee.

After a few minutes, Lehnsherr's voice interrupted him. "Preparing for the season, I see." Charles looked up, using a look of mild confusion to cover the flutter in his stomach. Lehnsherr nodded at the book in Charles's hand, and he looked down at it, then back up with a rueful smile. 

"Stephen King is a good choice in any season," he said, then added with a capitulating glance upward, "unless you're speaking of _Pet Sematery_ , which is never good ever."

Lehnsherr's eyebrows drew together. "I wouldn't be so free with praising all his works," he said. " _Rose Madder,_ for example. Compare that to _Bag of Bones_..."

"But you can't," Charles protested. " _Bag of Bones_ is a perfect novel. That doesn't make _Rose Madder_ a bad one."

"Either way, they're both better than that nonsense," Lehnsherr said with another dismissive wave at Charles's book. "Vampires are best left to Bram Stoker."

"At least you didn't say Anne Rice," Charles retorted with a smirk that turned into a laugh at Lehnsherr's theatrical shudder.

"My employees would run me out of the place on a rail if I did anything of the sort. Though I suspect Angel harbors a secret enjoyment of paranormal romance, she won't admit it." He smiled and added, "So I take it you won't be dressing as Dracula for Halloween." 

Charles shook his head. "No, I don't usually dress up. Not a holiday I celebrated as a child, I'm afraid," he said ruefully. "Though every year Raven tries to convince me it's the perfect time to start."

Lehnsherr grinned again, that sharp flash of teeth that made Charles's whole body ache with the fierceness of it. "You're lucky, then. My son insists he can't be Batman without a Joker, so I'm afraid you'll have ample opportunity to join in mocking me Halloween night. I promised them both I would take them trick-or-treating downtown-- naturally he didn't inform me of my costume until after I'd done so."

Charles laughed harder than he should have. "I'm sorry," he said, attempting to get it under control, "but did you already own a violet suit, or was it purchased special for the occasion?"

"I'll never tell," Lehnsherr said airily, causing Charles to laugh again. 

Later, when he was back in the shop alone, he found he could not bring himself to feel guilty for enjoying Lehnsherr's company. When he saw him around town, buying coffee or walking to or from his shop, he always seemed so singleminded, so focused on his work; the man looked like he needed a break, and Charles couldn't regret being the one to give it to him. 

\---

The next day, a package came from Charles's accountant with the summary reports of the last quarter's earnings in relationship to the quarter before. After he'd finished reading it, Charles concluded that he did, in fact, regret every kind word and charitable thought he'd ever said or had on Erik Lehnsherr's behalf.

\---

After the shock had worn off, Charles began to work at a frenzied pace. The packet sat in a drawer in the desk until Thursday, when Armando (who had been designated unofficial paperwork master by virtue of the fact that no one else wanted to do it) was filing things and uncovered it. He came out to where Charles sat refiling the philosophy and religion section and held up the report in its plastic binding.

"Want to talk about this?" he asked.

Charles looked up and shrugged. "Not really sure what's to talk about," he said. He was glad it was Armando who'd found it, if anyone was going to. Armando didn't push people to talk when they didn't want to, and Charles knew he wouldn't tell anyone (except maybe Alex) what was in the report. It wasn't that he wanted to hide it from the others so much as he didn't want the rest of them asking him about it; they would probably be far more invasive than Armando.

"Well," Armando said, a little hesitant, "it seems like we're not doing as well as we could."

"Yes," Charles said, "that is what it seems like." He looked back at the books, foolishly embarrassed, but still not wanting to chance seeing disappointment in Armando's face. _I'm doing the best I can,_ he thought. He knew he should scold himself for thinking any of his employees didn't know that already, but he wasn't quite done being pathetic about it yet.

"Where do you want me to file this, then? Or should I take the trash can out back and burn it?" Armando offered a little grin when Charles looked up again, a grin he had to return. 

"No, don't do that. Scott went to such trouble to print it." He sighed and stood up, leaving a short pile of books on the stool behind him and leading the way out to the counter where his cup of coffee had now gone tepid. He picked it up and hung onto it as he sat, giving Armando a frank look. "It's not the worst news we could have gotten. The losses are recoverable. But it's... we can't miss a minute if we're going to stay ahead of the game."

Armando gave him the same no-bullshit look right back. "Ahead of Lehnsherr, you mean."

Charles nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Yes."

"Alright. Well, I'm not the business guy, I'm the paperwork guy. And sometimes the Victorian science and history guy. But seriously, Charles. _You're_ the business guy. You know what you have to do to get us out of this, or you will once you think about it. So," he concluded, tucking the report under his arm and sticking his hands in his pockets, "get on that, will you?"

Charles grinned again, nodding. "Sir, yes sir," he said, tossing off a mock salute. "Right on it."

Armando smiled back. "Good. I'll just." He jerked his chin back toward the office, then spun on his heel and headed back toward it. 

Charles pulled a pad of post-its toward himself and picked up a pen. He tapped the end of the pen on the countertop for a moment, then wrote on it, _1\. Be the business guy._ He tapped the pen some more, thought some more, then added, _2\. Stop flirting with the competition._ He looked at it for another minute, then shrugged and muttered, "Good enough to be going on with." 

He put the post-it pad in his pocket as the door opened to admit a few customers; later he took it back out again and peeled off the post-it with his little memo scrawled on it. He stuck it to the computer monitor in the office, knowing at the very least it would get a laugh out of Raven when she saw it.

\---

Raven's birthday fell on a Tuesday, with Halloween the following Sunday. It had been over a week since Charles had gotten the accounting report, which also meant over a week since he'd exchanged so much as a good morning with Erik Lehnsherr. He didn't like to think of the pains he'd taken to avoid the man; it was embarrassing, but it had worked. He'd been more focused, which he couldn't entirely attribute to Lehnsherr (admittedly, the man had been in Charles's thoughts more than in his presence) but his absence certainly hadn't hurt.

Charles threw Raven a party to celebrate, and almost from the moment he opened the door to the first guests, he knew it was going to be a good night. He'd ordered extravagantly from her favorite restaurant, everyone brought a bottle of something, and they spent the evening getting tipsy, eating, and watching Raven open her presents. It was an unremarkable night except for how happy everyone was-- how happy, and how unfettered by the worries that had plagued them for the past few months. Charles hated to trot out a tired cliche, but it actually seemed true that everything glowed and time seemed to pass more slowly. 

He quickly lost track of time, and of the amount of wine he'd consumed-- once he passed glass number three, everything began to blur together. He kept on as he'd begun, though-- this was a safe crowd in which to get piss-up-the-wall wasted, with no fear of doing anything he'd regret later. And since there was _also_ no chance of accidentally running into Lehnsherr, he could safely forget about the man for the evening-- even if he needed the assistance of alcohol to get the job done. Realizing his glass was empty, he excused himself from the group listening to one of Moira's bartenders tell a convoluted story about Spain and ducks and a broken television set, and dashed back into the kitchen for another refill.

He hadn't expected anyone to be in the room when he came in, and clearly he hadn't _been_ expected, from the startled sounds and the way they broke apart-- quick, but not so quick that Charles hadn't seen and understood everything in a split second. Armando's arm slung around Alex's waist, Alex's hand on the back of his neck, the soft look on Armando's face-- he shouldn't have seen, and he immediately turned away. "Sorry, sorry," he said, about to crash back through the door through which he'd come, but both their voices tripped over each other in calling him back. 

"Charles, it's not, you don't have to--"

"Don't be an idiot, man, it's not like we--"

"--just hadn't said anything yet," Armando finished as Charles turned back.

"I didn't mean to barge in," Charles said again.

"It's fine," Alex said, flushed almost crimson to the roots of his hair. "We're not like, hiding or anything. Obviously, or we wouldn't have been--" he gestured vaguely. 

"Am I just that unobservant?" he replied dryly, quirking an eyebrow. 

"No," Armando said, also looking uncomfortable. "There wasn't-- it just-- it was only like, two weeks ago that--"

"Okay," Charles said, hurrying on when he got the idea. "So I'm not stupid, good. I'm still sorry for interrupting. But I will be taking this," he said, and went to the refrigerator for the bottle of wine. "And no, I won't say anything to anyone," he added, forestalling what was clearly Alex's next question. "But you should. And soon." He wondered what Alex would say, why they hadn't already.

"I just want to tell my brother first," said Alex, his face still flaming . "You know, the whole, I've got a boyfriend thing..." he trailed off, but the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth at the declaration was all the answer Charles was looking for.

"Brilliant," said Charles, grinning at them both. "I'm going to go get pissed now." 

As he left the kitchen he heard Armando stage-whisper, "Pissed means drunk, doesn't it?" behind him, and held up two fingers in their direction as he pushed through the door. He did, in fact, get pissed, because he was in his own apartment and there were cabs to see everyone else home, and he felt he needed it. It took the rest of the bottle of wine to understand why; in fact, it took until he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling (pitching and rolling like the decks of a boat) for Charles to realize what was wrong with him.

God knew he didn't care about his employees dating each other, so long as they were careful to keep both snogging and fighting off the floor of the shop. It wasn't as if he could claim any sort of wisdom where romance was concerned, and he didn't have any caution to preach. No, Charles realized, the strange tortured feeling in his stomach was envy. How long had it been since someone looked at him with that depth of feeling? There was a sort of desire that sprang from a deeper place than lust, a need to be near the person, to crawl inside their skin and know everything about them. That was what he'd seen on his friends' faces, intimate and private, something he hadn't felt (perhaps hadn't let himself feel) for another person in quite some time.

With the crystal clarity that only came to Charles on the heels of thorough inebriation, it dawned on him abruptly that he was lonely-- had been this way for some time, and now that he'd acknowledged it he wasn't likely to be able to continue ignoring it. He also had to admit that sensible or not, he'd put himself in a terrible position. He had begun looking to Erik Lehnsherr for that spark, for a hint that he hadn't given up his sex drive in favor of his work, and if he let himself go it would turn (had already begun to turn, if he was being totally honest) into a serious, debilitating crush. 

"Bugger," he said aloud. The ceiling still looked like it was moving. "Number two. Stop flirting with the competition. Got to remember that in the morning."

He realized someone was pulling on his feet, and looked up to see Raven tugging off his shoes. "You do that, Charles," she said, giving him a fond smile and a light pat on the cheek. "We'll write you another post-it note to keep at home."

"Brilliant," Charles said. Raven threw a blanket over him and he snuggled underneath it, not caring that he was still on the couch fully dressed. "You're brilliant. Happy birthday Raven."

Raven bent to kiss him on the head. "Thanks for the party, Charles. You're pretty brilliant too."

 _Not about this,_ Charles thought, Lehnsherr's face echoing in his thoughts as he drifted down into sleep.

By some blessed stroke of luck he woke up mostly hangover-free, but thoroughly disgusted by his descent into late-night maudlin. He wasn't about to pretend it wasn't true, that he was a bit lonely and that Lehnsherr was a pleasant distraction. But Charles knew himself. The fact that Lehnsherr was off-limits made him even more convenient, since it wasn't as if Charles would ever be in a position to act on his very sad little crush, or even to own up to the fact that it existed. And besides, it was almost a requirement of being a sappy drunk that you feel ashamed of it in the morning-- once he'd finished regretting this, he'd be able to put it in perspective and move on. 

He dragged himself to the shop early planning to take a nap in the office later, and threw himself into work once more. Between Thursday and Saturday there were three estate sales he planned to go to, and Sunday was Halloween. "And then it's only three weeks until Black Friday," he muttered to himself, running both hands through his hair until it stood on end. 

"Don't do that," Raven said, kicking the door shut behind her and settling into the chair across from his. She slid a paper cup and bag across the desk to him, then slouched back and crossed one boot over the other knee. 

Charles took a sip from the cup with a pleased sigh, then peeked inside the bag. "Blueberry," he said, grinning. "What do you want now?"

It was a joke, but she didn't take the bait. Instead, she leaned forward, looking serious. "For you to talk to me," she said bluntly. "You haven't in a while, and it's... well, it's freaking me out. You're going around looking like you're a second away from climbing a clock tower or jumping in the river or something. It's weird."

Charles looked down at the cup, his eyes straying to the computer mouse, the bird outside the window, anywhere but Raven's face. "I don't know that there's really anything to say," he said. It was half true; there were things he could say, but he didn't know where to begin any of them.

She made a loud tutting noise of scorn, and his eyes snapped up to hers. She just looked at him, eyebrows up; he wasn't getting away with anything, that was clear. He shoved a hand into his hair again and blew his breath out hard. "Don't do that," she said again, pointing at his head. "." He stuck his tongue out, which she returned. "Seriously Charles... I'm worried."

"I know," he said, eyes on his coffee again. "So am I."

"It's just... you know this doesn't all rest on you, right?" She was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, looking apprehensive. "Like, obviously none of us wants the store to close. But none of us wants you to kill yourself trying to keep it open, either."

Charles nodded, feeling miserably at a loss. "I'm just... out of sorts. Like everything's moving in a pattern I can't see, and I can't get ahead enough to make it make sense. Armando says I'm the business guy, but I don't feel like I'm very good at it. Not when our competition is clearly better."

Raven's expression did something complicated and obscure. "Well, he's good at confusing the hell out of you, at any rate," she said, her face unchanging as Charles felt himself flush. "What's going on there?" she asked, her eyes direct and penetrating. 

He shook his head. "Nothing. Honestly," he protested at her skeptical look. "I wouldn't lie if there was, but really, there's nothing going on. And more to the point, there _can't_ be anything going on. He's..." Charles hesitated, then went on, "He's not an option. Even if I had any reason to think I had a chance, which I don't. He has children, Raven, and just because he hasn't mentioned a wife doesn't mean there isn't someone in the picture."

Raven snorted again. "Please, Charles. No straight man could pull off a turtleneck and a leather jacket like that. But that's besides the point." She straightened up in her chair, leaned across the desk and grabbed his hand. "You say you can't have him. So find someone else. Something else, I don't care what. I know you're panicking right now, but you have to take care of yourself too. I don't know how to prevent the store from failing, but if you're walking around here crazed with stress, it's probably a heck of a lot more likely to happen."

"Probably true," Charles admitted ruefully. 

"But on the other hand," Raven added with a shrewd glance in his direction, "just because you haven't slept with him doesn't mean there's not something going on. If he is queer, he'd have to be blind not to find you good-looking. And he's obviously just as huge a nerd as you are, so..." 

She trailed off, but he knew what the end of the sentence was. _So there are stupider people to have crushes on._ But Charles wasn't ready to entertain that possibility. That she might tell him to go for it, that he might not be able to talk himself out of it, what might happen afterward-- so much was uncertain, and uncertainty could lead to disaster. _You can't afford to be sloppy,_ he told himself severely. He loved Raven with all his heart, but she didn't understand the tightrope Charles was walking, how little it would take to convince him not to see Lehnsherr and his business as a threat, and how quickly he might lose Bindings thereafter.

But he was mindful that Raven had only his best interests at heart, as well, and so he kept his thoughts to himself, and made sure the conversation stayed firmly in the realm of the theoretical. "Well thank you for the compliment, and yes, if you can call being obsessed with reading being a nerd, then he clearly fits the bill. And God knows I'm not denying I'm attracted to him. There's just the small problem of him being the entire cause of my borderline-volcanic stress level," he said dryly. "Which I somehow doubt would lend itself well to romance."

Raven shrugged, grinning as she got to her feet. "No one's perfect-- not even you," she teased, leaning over to tweak his nose, "as much as you'd like to think otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more tonight! It's late, but I've been editing all night, and I couldn't not post. XD Chapter title from Suzanne Vega.
> 
> A side note: I'm attempting to compile a soundtrack to go with the story, so if you have any song suggestions, let me know in comments! <3


	4. all of our secrets are coming undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what I get for posting at 1:30 AM-- I missed an entire (very important) section of this chapter, so here it is, REPOSTED. woops.
> 
> Chapter title from the Kills.

Charles returned from the estate sale in Westchester late Sunday afternoon to find his shop had been transformed. They'd had the obligatory fake spiderwebs and bat silhouettes up in the windows for weeks, of course, but now the entire place was, for lack of a better phrase, tricked out. Green icicle lights trailed from the ceiling, cotton cobwebs were everywhere, eerie fiddle music hummed through the speakers, and the entire atmosphere was one of spooky secrecy. Alex sat behind the till dressed quite convincingly as a pirate, Raven was up in the childrens' section in a wig and witch's costume reading scary stories, and Charles almost jumped in fright as Hank came out from the shelves in a blue furry monster mask (oversized mitts and slippers completed the illusion that he was Cookie Monster with teeth). 

"Better get changed," he said, nodding toward the office. His voice was muffled behind the mask, but Charles could make him out well enough.

"Changed?" he asked, looking appropriately worried.

Hank laughed. "Yeah. But don't blame me, okay, blame Raven."

"Oh God," Charles said, and turned wearily toward the office.

His first thought on seeing it hung up was that it could have been so very much worse. Raven's idea of humor was to mock his Englishness; therefore, his costume was a Guy Fawkes mask, a cape, a black wig, a belt with daggers attached-- there was more, but Charles knew what it was already. "Remember, remember, the fifth of November," he recited with a smile, dropping his briefcase on the chair.

He came back out a few minutes later, feeling a little silly but mostly rather cool in his black outfit. Armando, dressed as some superhero in a teal-and-yellow wetsuit, mimed applauding as he emerged, and within minutes Charles was passing out candy and finding chairs for people to sit and listen to Raven's storytelling. It was a busy night; a lot of the stores had closed before dinner so their proprietors could take their children trick-or-treating, and Charles was stupidly happy that they'd decided to stay open. It was almost a giddy relief to see the place so full.

And then.

"I didn't realize I should have come prepared for a fireworks display," said the voice behind him. Charles froze, his skin prickling. He said nothing, and Lehnsherr continued, "Of course, if I should happen to catch the opening strains of the 1812 Overture, at least I'm within clear sight of the door."

Charles turned, finally, and remembered like a smack to the head, _Right. The Joker._ The violet suit was garish, but it fitted him closely, and the effect was far better than it should have been. Even the makeup wasn't as silly as he'd expected; Lehnsherr looked spooky, but it didn't make him any less handsome. Charles was glad the mask hid his entire face; he was sure he was gaping. "And what about you?" he returned, finding his voice at last. "Should I be keeping my ears open for the sweet sounds of Prince?"

Lehnsherr snickered, shaking his head. "Never." He looked away, at the room at large, then back to Charles. "You've got quite a turnout."

He sounded surprised, which stung a bit, but Charles didn't show it. "Surprised?" he asked mildly. "I'll have you know we give out the best candy of any shop in town." He reminded himself that it was easier if they didn't talk, that he was only torturing himself, that he should find something to take him away from this conversation before it went any further.

Lehnsherr _tsk_ ed. "No need to get defensive," he said. He cut a narrow look straight at Charles's eyes, sharp as if the mask wasn't there at all, and Charles tried not to let his knees turn to jelly. 

"If I'm defensive, can you blame me?" he asked, knowing it sounded petty. 

"Yes, I can," Lehnsherr said, looking more surprised than ever. "I've never given you offense, have I? Never been anything but civil?"

"That's not at all what I'm talking about," Charles said quietly, and turned away. He couldn't do this without making a scene, which he was unwilling to do. He started down the hallway toward the office, pulling off the mask and wig as he went. He needed air; he needed a cigarette, actually, and this would be an opportune moment--

A hand on his elbow stopped him. He turned, seeing Lehnsherr, and started to talk before the other man could get a word in. "Whether you mean it or not, your business is in competition with mine. To expect me not to be affected by that-- I've worked for years to get Bindings to be successful, and now--" He cut himself off abruptly, took a breath, and went on. "It isn't your fault. I'm not saying you shouldn't do business here. I'm simply saying you can't expect me not to care what it might mean for me."

"Of course you care," Lehnsherr said. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be any good at this." He had dropped his hand the moment Charles turned; he could feel the cool spot where it had so briefly rested. "And you are," he added. "Quite good."

"Well thank you," Charles said wryly. "Now that I've had my validation for the day--" He turned to go again, his pulse racing, but Lehnsherr called after him.

"Xavier," he said, then lower, but just as urgent, "Charles." 

That got his attention. His previously speeding heartbeat seemed to slam to a stop, then resume even faster than before. He put the wig and mask on the shelf by his elbow and turned back. _What do you want from me?_ he wanted to ask. But he couldn't make himself say the words. _Afraid of the answer,_ he chided himself. _Idiot._

"I'm not trying to get in your way," Lehnsherr said. He took another step toward Charles, who then had to look up to keep eye contact. "I swear it, Charles, I'm not."

"I know," Charles said, though the words seemed to have come out of his mouth without his telling them to. "If I thought you were, I wouldn't..." he paused, trying to find a way to finish the sentence that was not _have an epically stupid and juvenile crush on you right now_. "I wouldn't be having this conversation," he settled on at last, though he knew it was a diluted replacemet, and that knowing it made him flush. 

Lehnsherr's mouth quirked like he was suppressing a smile, and he nodded. "Good," he said. "Because I--" he hesitated, looked awkward (or possibly embarrassed; Charles had no idea what that would look like on him, but thought he'd love to find out), then continued, "I enjoy our conversations. I realize I've put you in a difficult position, but I... I feel we could be friends."

Charles's mouth went dry with surprise and conflicted want. _Friends and...?_ he couldn't help but think, and with Lehnsherr's eyes boring into him like that, he found himself momentarily robbed of the powers of speech. Finally he swallowed, his tongue unsticking from the roof of his mouth, and nodded. "I rather think we already are," he admitted. Purposefully lightening his tone, he added, "Much as I've tried to prevent it. You're too charismatic, Lehnsherr."

"Erik," the other man corrected him, with a smile that left Charles briefly unable to breathe. "Please," he added, which only made it worse.

"Erik, then," Charles repeated, as soon as he could speak again. "But I should warn you, I don't know how to do this well. I'm rather bad at friendship." _At least when my friend is actually someone I'd rather take to bed,_ he added to himself. "And our interests do conflict, you can't deny it."

"No, I can't. But I don't see that as a reason not to speak to one another at all. I've already said I enjoy your company, and you've admitted as much in return. It would be foolish to say we shouldn't be friends, not when we both want it."

The frank honesty in his face and voice was too much. Charles was still in turmoil, and the way Lehnsherr ( _no, Erik,_ he corrected) kept on looking at him was not helping; curious and interested, expectant, pleased, and an undercurrent of something more, the intensity that was always there in his demeanor, dizzying when it was focused so intently on him. Charles already had trouble not betraying his attraction, and now he found he was actually forced to talk himself out of grabbing the man by the hand and dragging him into the office to snog him senseless. 

Instead, he said the first-- and stupidest-- thing that came into his head. "It's extremely difficult for me to take you seriously when you're painted up like that." He gestured at the Joker makeup. 

"I'm not the one in a cape," Erik retorted, taking in Charles's getup with a bemused look that lingered, making Charles feel even warmer under the collar.

"Touche," he said, grinning. "But at least I'm not the only one--"

He was cut off by the stomp of boots and Alex's voice growing louder. "--back in a minute, I need water or I'm going to die." He pulled up short when he saw the hallway was occupied, and Charles was abruptly and uncomfortably aware of how it must look; the low light, how close they stood, Charles with his mask off and already blushing. "Sorry," said Alex, glancing between the two of them, neither looking nor sounding sorry. "Just need a drink."

Erik had stepped back at Alex's approach, and he smiled as he passed. "Don't worry about it," he said, "you weren't interrupting anything. I should go collect my children," he went on, already looking at the small crowd of costumed kids milling about. "It's almost bedtime. But they had to come for the story hour," he said, flashing Charles a smile. "Happy Halloween, Charles."

"You as well," Charles replied, returning the smile. He watched Erik move through the crowd, feeling a bit guilty for it, but not guilty enough to stop. He couldn't look away as Erik bent down to talk with a boy in a Batman costume, then straightened and reached for his hand, the other dangling to allow a serious-eyed cowgirl to clasp his thumb. 

He was feeling sufficiently warm and fuzzy that when the door opened behind him and Alex's voice reached him-- "Charles. Can I have a word?"-- he turned and went with the grin still lingering on his face.

"So," Alex said as Charles shut the door behind him. "What was that about?"

He wasn't happy, Charles could see immediately. The set of his posture, his arms folded, chin up-- even behind the bandana, eyeliner and fake parrot, Charles could tell Alex was troubled. "There's not much to tell," he said, sitting in the chair with a slight sigh. "He was just appealing to my better judgment."

"I'm sure he was very appealing," Alex said, a snide edge to the words. He shook his head, his next words coming out more plaintive. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that he's a nice guy," Charles said automatically. "A good one as well. Is there a problem with that?"

Alex's mouth twisted. "There is, Charles, but I doubt you're going to listen to me tell you what it is."

He bristled. "I'm hardly being unreasonable-"

"No, not yet. But you will once I start talking." He came around the desk to lean against it. "I'm sure he's nice, Charles. I'm sure he's a fantastic person. But-- don't hate me for saying this, but you aren't that great at separating what you need to do from how you feel. And if you let yourself like him-- and it looks like you pretty much already do-- you're going to lose your edge."

"You're wrong," he said, shaking his head, "and I'm surprised at you. As if anything could make me lose sight of the fact that Bindings is in danger-- it's all I've been able to think about for months, Alex."

"Yeah, except when you're standing there flirting with him," he retorted, one hand shooting out to point out to where he'd found them. His eyes blazed, his mouth turned unhappily down; Charles had never seen Alex look so vulnerable, and it tore at him. "I'm not saying don't have fun, Charles, I'm not saying don't have a, a distraction if you need one. I'm just saying maybe having it with _him_ isn't the smartest plan."

"I'm not having anything except civil conversation at the moment," Charles said, stung. "And I resent your saying that I'm not capable of keeping my focus. He's our competition, yes. But he's not some villain in a comic book; he's just a regular person, a perfectly amiable and interesting person. And if I want to be friends with him, what of it? I can make sure Bindings succeeds without tearing him down in the process." 

Alex's lips pressed tight and he looked down at his hands. "I know you're capable, Charles. I'm sorry. I'm just-- I'm scared, okay? This place means as much to me as it does to you, and I don't want to lose it. But unlike you, I'm not really in a position to do much about it. So do what you want-- just don't screw the rest of us up in the process." 

Alex brushed past him and was out in the hallway before Charles could reply, and when he had gone Charles felt like crawling under the desk and going to sleep. "I'm not going to," he said aloud even though there was no one there to hear him. "I'm not going to fuck this up." Maybe by saying it often enough he could make it come true. 

\---

As the days got shorter and the air colder, Charles kept to his resolve. He came to the shop even on his days off, and if he was ever absent, more often than not it was to travel. He was having lunch with Ororo in the city once a week, and had gone as far as Pennsylvania and Ohio for estate sales. It was paying off; he had a few regular buyers now, and he had put aside a measure of his pride in letting them know that their referrals to other like-minded collectors would mean a great deal to him.

He didn't tell Scott to run another analysis of the store's profits. It had only been a month; things could hardly have changed appreciably in so short a time. And though it embarrassed him to admit, Charles didn't entirely want to know the numbers. Not yet.

And throughout it all, his friendship with Erik continued. He remembered their conversation on Halloween with startling vividness; he remembered _I enjoy our conversations_ and _not when we both want it_. Since then he'd given himself leave to enjoy seeing Erik without guilt. He had allowed himself to want, and to enjoy the wanting, too. They didn't see each other often, and it was never planned. But it was different-- it felt different to Charles, anyway, though he was well aware the change might only be within himself.

It snowed the third week of November, three days before Thanksgiving. It had been cloudy the night before, and the town awoke to find itself wrapped in a thin blanket of white. If downtown Barnes was beautiful normally, in the snow it looked like a Victorian Christmas card. Charles took his lunch early and went out in it, coat buttoned up tight, hands in his pockets. Even an inch of snow made everything quiet, and he walked aimlessly down streets that swallowed his footsteps.

When he looked up and realized he was in front of Brand- new; he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head and pushed the door open. The girl Angel was behind the till, and gave him a cordial nod. Charles smiled in return and went to the coffee bar, feeling awkward and a little embarrassed; the last time he'd been in here it was to scope out the opening of the shop. He wasn't as comfortable entering Erik's den as Erik was coming into Bindings. The man behind the espresso bar was the one who'd been at the show in New York. He gave no sign of recognizing Charles, for which Charles was grateful.

"Just a coffee," he said, "black with sugar."

"Tsk, cheating on Felicia's," said Erik, walking up from the direction of the comics section. "She'll be devastated."

Charles grinned without turning. "She's absorbed the larger portion of my salary for the past eight years. Those blueberry pastries-- I think she puts drugs in them. I'm sure she won't begrudge me a coffee. Thanks," he said, taking the cup from the man behind the counter and taking out his wallet.

"Put that away," Erik said, exasperated. Charles dropped a dollar in the tip cup anyway. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Charles shrugged. "I have a long day today--"

"Unlike every other day?" Erik murmured, warm and amused.

Charles ignored him. "--and I thought I could use a walk." 

Erik's mouth curled slightly, the thin smile Charles had grown to recognize as indicating Erik was trying not to laugh. "I was just contemplating a walk myself," he said. "Would you mind company?"

Charles tried not to feel warm about that, with mixed success. "Of course not." They went toward the door; at the till Erik leaned over and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it as they left the building. 

"Tell the truth," Erik said, pulling on a pair of gloves. "You wanted to walk because of the snow."

Charles laughed, a bit sheepish. "It is compellingly pretty," he admitted. "Are you saying you prefer being outdoors when it's in the thirties?"

"No. I prefer being outdoors when I need to think." 

It was more serious an answer than he'd been expecting, and Charles looked at Erik sidelong, frowning a little. "Something on your mind?" 

Erik's eyes were fixed ahead; he replied without looking. "There's quite a bit on my mind, Charles, a condition with which I suspect you sympathize." That came out sharp. When he went on, it was softer. "There's something you should know. I don't often speak of it, it's... quite private. Regarding the reason I came to Barnes in the first place."

Charles discovered he was at a loss for words. He took a sip of his coffee to give himself a moment, then said, "If you're expecting me to deny curiosity on the subject, think again." He actually considered himself pathetically over-curious about Erik's past and personal life. He hadn't asked much because he hadn't thought it appropriate; actually he thought Erik would taunt him for being nosy as a firm but uncruel way of declining to talk about himself.

He won a small smile for the quip, a brief glance sideways that soon faded beneath the stoic exterior. "I'm afraid it's quite a sob story. Nothing glamorous about it. There's a man going to trial in Albany next month for first-degree manslaughter. A drunk driver. It was my mother he killed." Erik's voice barely changed, terse as always, but flatter than Charles was used to hearing him. He sounded like this was something he had had quite some time to deal with; understandably, he did not sound as if he had dealt with it well. 

Charles knew all too well the void left in the wake of a parent's death, and his heart went out to this brilliant, intractable man who seemed determined not to let grief be his undoing. Had it been someone else-- Raven, Sean, Hank, even Alex-- he'd have known what to do. He'd have had no compunctions putting an arm around any of them, letting them know, with words and without them, that he was there to support them. But he couldn't do that with Erik; they weren't close enough friends yet, and more to the point, Charles was fairly sure it was a terrible idea for him to entertain the prospect of touching Erik for more than the length of a handshake.

Charles realized he had stopped walking only when Erik turned back to look at him, guarded and wary. "I'm so sorry, Erik," he said finally, the only words that would come to him, as if any words could properly express the sympathy he felt.

It seemed Erik was determined to gloss over the tale as if it were dismissable. The wariness on his face relaxed slightly, and he turned to face Charles directly, hands in his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. "Thank you. It was eighteen months ago-- you know how long it takes anything to come to trial in this country. It's not something I relish uprooting my life for, but... my children grew up without a mother, and to lose their grandmother as well-- well, I couldn't not be here for it. If only to show them I believe justice is possible." He gave a thin smile. "In any case, I'm told to expect it to be concluded and the sentence passed by the spring. I told the children they would only be away from New York for a year, so I hope the courts do not make a liar of me."

Charles had already gleaned from conversation that Lehnsherr had moved to the Albany area from the city; he had caught no warning he planned to go back. He was stunned, both at the revelation that such a tragedy existed in Erik's past, and that he hadn't bothered to mention thus far that his tenancy in Barnes had an expiration date. His stomach felt hollow, disappointment a bitter taste in his mouth, yet now was not the time to think about why. Firmly, he shoved all his own feelings on the matter to the side. _Deal with it later,_ he told himself.

"If there's anything I can do," he said, wishing he were more eloquent. "Anything, I mean it."

This time Erik's smile was genuine. Charles didn't bother trying to pretend it didn't affect him. "Thank you, Charles." He nodded in the direction they'd been walking, a question in his eyes, and Charles nodded, falling into step beside him. "Now that I've thoroughly depressed both of us," Erik went on with a short laugh, "let's try to enjoy the afternoon, shall we?"

Charles grinned. "You're one of the least depressing people I know, Erik," he countered. "And I want to thank you for telling me. No one's stories are all sunshine and roses, and without someone to share the burden of the bad ones, they grow to cast their shadow over everything. In any case, I'm glad of any chance to know you better." He said it lightly, grateful he was not looking at Erik's face; he was sure he couldn't have gotten that out so smoothly otherwise.

"And I you," Erik said. His voice was warm, and Charles was warmed by it, feeling a little shiver of enjoyment travel down his spine. "Even if you do sound like my grandfather with your little gems of wisdom," Erik added, to which Charles could do nothing but laugh.

\---

On Black Friday it snowed again. Eleven PM saw the staff of Bindings at Moira's bar surrounded by the employees of most of Barnes's retail establishments. 

"Neither rain nor sleet nor snow shall keep me from being drunk," Sean proclaimed as he collapsed into a chair at the bar. "You'd think books aren't like, a hot commodity for Christmas. But no." He shook his head, looking dazed. Charles could hardly blame him; it was only his second Black Friday. It took a little getting used to.

"What'll it be, guys?" Moira looked a little frazzled herself, but the sour mix jug they used as a tip jar was full, so Charles guessed it hadn't been that bad a night. For her, anyway. Personally he felt as if he'd been flattened by a freight train, reinflated, then flattened again. When Moira brought back his beer she frowned at him and asked, "You want a shot of espresso to chase that with?"

He shook his head. "Nah. It'll just mean I'll be up til three AM instead of passing out the second my head hits the pillow."

"Well, either perk up or go home. If you fall asleep on my bar I'm dumping a glass of ice water over you."

"Cruel," said Erik, sliding into the chair Charles hadn't even realized Sean had vacated. "But probably extremely amusing, so, go ahead, Charles. Make my and Moira's nights." 

"Sod off," Charles muttered, leering sideways at Erik with half-slitted eyes. "Who invited you?"

"Pub is short for public house, did you know?" Erik replied as if making a non sequitur. "They've been called the heart of English culture."

"Stop quoting Wikipedia, you Viking." Charles finished his beer and Moira brought him another along with whatever Erik had ordered when he wasn't paying attention. 

"You're very endearing when you're disgruntled," Erik observed.

"I'm endearing all the time," he said, causing Erik to laugh out loud. Pretending affront, he straightened up and lifted his chin, giving Erik another narrow-eyed look. "What, you don't think so?" 

"What I think doesn't matter," Erik countered.

"That's true," Charles said, smirking, "but I didn't think I'd get you to admit it so easily." 

Erik gave a surprised bark of laughter; angling in to rest his elbow on the bar, he ended up leaning forward, a little more in Charles's space than before. _Does he do that on purpose?_ Charles wondered, but didn't move away. 

"You think you're very clever, don't you?" It wasn't the first time he'd teased Charles for his ego.

"Most of the time, yes," he admitted. _It's not ego if it's true,_ he thought. _I am clever._ But not clever enough to make sense of this, of Erik, of the way they acted around each other. Half the time he was sure he was being flirted with, the other half he was certain it was entirely wishful thinking. The more humiliating part was that he didn't care if he was doomed to disappointment. They circled each other like prize fighters at times, their banter just on the verge of an argument, then a moment later it was forgotten as their conversation went tearing off on a tangent. It had been so long since he'd had this sort of rapport with someone, this unspoken understanding, that he found it effortless and addictive. 

He hadn't told anyone else that Erik was likely leaving in the spring. He knew Raven would be relieved, the boys probably also, but he hadn't done it. If nothing else, it wasn't his story to tell. 

"And now you're not listening to me anymore," said Erik, the first thing that had filtered through Charles's brain in almost a minute.

"Sorry," he said ruefully. "Got lost in thought there."

"Yes, well, as alluring as the absent-minded professor trope is--"

"Alluring?" Charles cut in, his face split with a gleeful grin. "Seriously?"

Erik's eyes narrowed; he didn't blush, but his mouth twisted wryly before he replied. "Did I say that? I thought I said annoying."

"No, no," Charles said, shaking his head, still just a breath from laughing. "I heard you quite distinctly." 

"Hallucinating," he retorted, waving a hand. "Drinking yourself silly."

Charles let go the laugh he'd been holding in, rocking back in his chair a little. He felt warm and giddy, and in spite of the wretchedly long day he'd had, was no longer even thinking about going home to bed. He drew a gasping breath and let it out slowly, smothering the last few chuckles under his hand, and reached again for his beer. Erik was still leaning his elbow against the bar, and Charles realized the space between them was even less than it had been. He tried not to blush, tried not to seem like he'd noticed, tried to think of something to say, and failed, probably at all three. Then--

"Here you go," said Moira, plunking two more glasses down beside them, startling them apart. "And by the way, since I'm sure you've forgotten already, my party is a week from tomorrow. So don't forget to go buy the bourbon for that ridiculous cake you make. It wasn't nearly as good when you made it three hours before showing up at my house." She turned her smile and snark on Erik next. "You should come too, Lehnsherr. I throw a good party, and I make Sir Elton over here bring the wine, so we all get good and drunk."

At that Charles did flush, so bright he could feel his forehead was hot. "Moira," he said, pleading. "Can you not, please--"

"Can it, or do you want me to come up with a few more?" she teased. "It's been what, seven years? I've got a whole arsenal."

"That's quite enough," Charles said, just as Erik interjected.

"I'd love to come to your party," he said, "so long as it's not a problem I don't come until after dark. It's the first night of Hanukkah," he went on, grinning, "and I forfeit my presents if I'm not there to light the menorah."

"That's... disgustingly sweet," Moira said, deadpan, then grinned. "Show up whenever you want. Charles will give you my address. And he should probably give you his own, as well," she added as she turned away. "If this year's anything like last year he's going to end up needing a chaperone."

"Don't ask," Charles said immediately. 

Erik grinned, his eyes lingering thoughtfully on Charles's. "I think I'm having more fun imagining, actually."

"I hate you," Charles muttered, reaching for his beer.

"Not yet you don't," Erik said, his smile dangerously bright as he lifted his glass up to Charles's. "Cheers, vicar."


	5. i know the way these things begin

By Tuesday, Charles had come to the realization that he had a lot more at stake in Moira's holiday party than he usually did. The bourbon cake was made and sitting on top of his refrigerator to marinate, and he'd gone and bought the wine already, a case of Australian red that had set him back an obscene amount of money. But he didn't just have Moira and her usual crowd to impress; now Erik was going to be there as well.

It was really the first time they'd be seeing each other socially, he realized. Accidental meetings in the park, beers at the bar and conversations over sandwiches-- in all the time they'd known each other, it wasn't as if they'd made plans to meet. They simply found themselves in each other's way.

This would be different. Moira's party was an event, a tradition. Dressing up was strongly encouraged, and leaving early was frowned upon. It was one of the only times from November to January that any of them got to relax, and usually Charles made the most of it-- to his great chagrin later on, when Moira reminded him of it in public. 

_The simple solution is simply not to drink around him,_ Charles thought to himself. _Like that's going to work._ He huffed a sigh as he continued rummaging through his closet in an attempt to choose his outfit ahead of time-- futile, since he had a long history of changing his mind ten minutes before leaving the house the night of the party anyway.

He heard the front door open and the clack of Raven's boot-heels on the hardwood. "Helloooo," she sang out, and Charles called back, "In here!"

He listened to her drop her bag onto a chair, the clink of her keys on the table, the familiar approach of her footsteps. "What are you doing?" she laughed, coming into the room and surveying the pile of discarded clothes on the floor between the bed and the closet. 

"Trying to decide what to wear on Saturday," he admitted, giving her a sheepish smile as she picked her way toward the bed and flung herself down on it. 

Her expression changed from one breath to the next; lips twisted to the side and eyebrows arched, unimpressed and almost disappointed. "Really?" she asked, injecting disbelief into the word.

"What?" Charles protested. "It's a fancy party, Raven, I can't just show up in anything."

"If you say so," she said, rolling onto her back and folding her arms under her head. 

Charles dropped the shirt he'd been holding and sat down on the bed beside her, searching her face with intent eyes. "What happened to it being okay for me to have a distraction?" he asked gently. 

She shrugged, sullenly not looking at him. "Nothing." Charles waited. A second later she muttered, "But I don't like seeing you angsting over this, over _him_. He should be so lucky."

"I know what this is about, Raven," Charles said. "You know, I remember when we first moved here. When we met Moira, you didn't like her much at first. And Gabrielle, back at Oxford-- you weren't exactly her biggest fan either." Not that he could blame her for either of those things-- Gabrielle had left him ravaged on the inside, his heart in tatters. And while he'd never felt anything but brotherly toward Moira, initially she hadn't quite felt the same, and had been just obvious enough about it to set Raven off. 

Charles laid his hand over hers; it finally made her look at him. "I don't know whether to be grateful for your protectiveness or annoyed that you apparently think I'm incapable of looking out for myself. But I do know that you're afraid we're going to lose the store, and that you hate being afraid, and that in all likelihood you're taking that all out on me for being friends with Erik. Who hasn't actually done anything wrong."

At that she shook his hand off with an irritable glare. "He moved here, didn't he? Okay, so it's not like he picked from the yellow pages of bookstores he wanted to sabotage, but he could've gone somewhere else. I can be mad about that, can't I?"

"Raven, he has a good reason for moving here--"

"Don't defend him," she cut him off, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him some more. "Look, I get that you're desperate to bend him over your desk or whatever, but you seem to be missing the entire point. If we lose the store it will be his fault, and it won't matter if he's your boyfriend then, because we're all going to hate him."

Charles rolled his lower lip through his teeth, barely restraining himself from yanking on his hair as he wanted to. "What I want to do on my desk and with whom notwithstanding," he said, "if we lose the store it will be my fault, or the economy's fault, not Erik's. I very much doubt he's going to be my boyfriend, soon or ever, and I wish you wouldn't hate him. I rather think if you gave him a chance you'd like him as much as I do."

"I doubt anyone could like him _that_ much," Raven said, flicking a sullen glance up at him. 

Charles knew Raven better than anyone. Beneath her ire, he could clearly see the vulnerability, the fear. She wanted him to comfort her, to be her big brother and tell her it was going to be okay. But he knew, too, that she was scared to ask-- scared in case he couldn't, in case he _wouldn't_. They had both learned Cain's lesson early-- that showing weakness only showed the other guy where to hit hardest. Raven had shielded herself from him with a cool self-possession that Charles often envied, even when her walls grew high enough to keep him out. But when her armor cracked, the well of emotion she guarded beneath was staggering-- and Charles would go to any lengths to protect her from being wounded again.

Instead of saying anything, he swung his feet up on the bed and stretched himself out beside her, sliding his arm under her neck and leaning his cheek against the top of her head. He felt her tension, then felt it seep out of her as she sighed and relaxed against him. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I want you to like him if you like him. But if we lose the store..." She didn't need to say it. They both understood-- how could they not? They'd made their home here when they discovered they had no home left, and to lose this, too, after pouring so much of themselves into it-- the grief would be overwhelming.

"We won't," said Charles firmly. "He won't be--" he cut himself off as he realized what he'd been about to say, then shook his head and decided to say it anyway. _He didn't ask me not to tell,_ he thought. _And it wouldn't hurt to get it off my chest to someone. Then I can go back to pretending it doesn't bother me._

"He won't be here past the summer, anyway," Charles said aloud, not trying to mask the disappointment he feared was audible when he spoke. He felt Raven stir and knew she was looking up at him, but kept his eyes focused on the ceiling as he quickly outlined what Erik had told him about why he and his family had moved here. "So he's moving back to the city when it's over," he concluded. "And he'll be out of our collective hair."

Whatever he had expected Raven's reaction to be, it was not this: she swung herself up into a sitting position and stared down at him, her eyes wide in surprise. "Well fuck, Charles," she said, a sharp gesture with one hand cutting the air. "You haven't got a whole lot of time, have you?" In a heartbeat she was up on her feet, shedding her sweater as she dove into his closet with the air of a knight plunging into battle.

"Time for what?" Charles asked, sitting up more slowly, feeling (and probably looking) bewildered.

Raven emerged clutching an armful of clothes on their hangers, her hair rumpled into a pale nimbus around her head. "For you to screw him as many times as possible before he packs off to the city again, duh! Take these," she added, throwing the hangers at him, "and try them on."

"Raven," Charles began, half grinning with embarrassment, but she put her foot down-- literally, with a loud smack of wood on wood, hands on her hips, her childish temper tantrum pose all grown up.

"Charles Francis Xavier. That man is gorgeous and smart, and you are obviously and disgustingly _besotted_ with him. You are going to that party dressed to the teeth and if you come home alone from it I will personally not be speaking to you come Sunday morning."

Charles felt a smile start to grow on his face. It relaxed something in his chest to hear her sound normal again, like his little sister who loved so much to pretend she was older. He looked down at the hangers in his hands and realized they were all holding waistcoats of various colors and patterns. "Raven," he said again, but her head poked out of the closet again, a hand held up to forestall whatever he was going to say next.

"Don't want to hear it," she said. "Do you want to get some or don't you?"

"I want to get something," he allowed, shrugging into the first one. "Even if the 'something' is just confirmation that he's flirting with me the way I am with him." Not idly, not for the fun of it or because it was easy to flirt in a bar when you were half drunk, but seriously, because he meant it-- the way Charles had to admit, like it or not, that he meant it.

Raven made a noise of scorn. "Look, I'm not saying I can read him well, 'cus I can't really. He's too stoic and broody. But I maintain what I said back in August. He'd have to be blind not to notice you." Her face softened a little. "And not to puff up your already inflated sense of self-worth... but he'd have to be stupid not to be crazy about you. You're kind of awesome."

Charles's heart sort of turned to pudding at that, but Raven had a sixth sense for his emotions that clearly warned her a sentimental response was imminent. She frowned and pointed dramatically at him, or rather at his waistcoat, and proclaimed, "But you are not awesome enough in that. Next!"

\---

There were advantages, Charles knew, to having a budding fashion designer for a sister. He didn't think it was hubris to say he usually looked good in his clothes, but Raven had made him look better than just "good". The navy suit with its hint of a pinstripe, the sky-blue shirt, the silk tie (which he didn't remember owning, and suspected Raven of buying and slipping into his closet on the sly)-- he'd never worn a suit like this to Moira's party before, but he wouldn't be out of place. And he had to admit, though not to Raven, that knowing he looked amazing made him feel more comfortable, not awkward the way he often did when he had to dress up.

("That's because dressing up to you means anything other than jeans and a cardigan you've had since college," she'd retorted when he'd said as much to her earlier, slapping his hand as he tried to interfere with her tying his tie. 

"It does not," he'd protested, but feebly; she was mostly right.)

No, all he felt as he walked up Moira's front steps and knocked on the door was apprehension. He'd dropped off the wine and the cake earlier, so all he had to hang onto was the hostess gift-- a tradition as old as the cake, he always brought her a bottle of the bourbon he used to make it. He wished he had more to hang onto; it might have made him feel steadier.

"Hello!" Moira cried, throwing the door open with a flourish and ushering him inside. She managed to hug him and relieve him of the bottle in one gesture, while also looking stunning in a dark green dress and silver heels. "Give me your coat, too, no I'll hang onto this, I've got to go hide it," she said, tucking the bottle under one arm with a conspiratorial smile.

The look she gave him when he slid off his overcoat was appraising. "Charles," she said, "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I don't," he said, laughing, "good for me Raven does."

Moira whistled. "Does she ever." She took his coat and grinned at him, shaking her head. "You just be careful," she warned him. "If I catch you pulling that groovy mutation line on any of my friends, so help me--"

"Hey!" he protested, "It's not a line, it's true!"

"It's a line, Chucky," she said in her best bar-matron no-bullshit tone, "and you just keep it in your pocket, okay?"

"Go hide your booze, you lush," he retorted, turning away grinning.

"You know where the food is," she said, waving him off. "Have some wine, I hear it's excellent."

Smiling, Charles slipped his hands into his pockets and entered the party. People were just beginning to mingle, drinks in hand, the hum of their talk wound through with the soft, cheerful music coming from the stereo. With a glass of wine to keep him company, Charles joined them. After seven years, he and Moira had more than a handful of mutual friends, and he passed in and out of conversations as he made a round of the party. 

There was something different about the atmosphere of a holiday party, Charles thought. Despite working in retail, he had always loved the Christmas season, and that night Moira's apartment embodied all the reasons why. The candlelit softness to the room, the scent of spice and wine and burnt sugar, the heady happiness infusing everyone as they worked through the wine-- they needed it more, he thought, the chance to relax and set aside the stress and worry, to forget everything that had happened yesterday or might happen tomorrow. 

A burst of laughter took Charles from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Erik standing across the room.

He'd only just come in; Charles could see him over Moira's shoulder, unwrapping his scarf as she took his coat. Then she moved away, and Charles's breath caught in his throat. He knew he looked good tonight, but Erik had put him far and away to shame. The pale grey suit was tailored to fit him like a glove, accenting his height and the lean lines of his body. In the room full of charcoals and jewel tones he stood out like a torch; when he moved, Charles's eyes followed, drinking in the sight of him. Erik still hadn't seen him, so he was free to look, to study the details: the small dark buttons on his waistcoat, the deep-sheened violet of his tie, the glinting silver of his tie pin. He was gorgeous. 

Then Erik turned, and saw Charles looking. He'd had enough warning that he knew he wasn't telegraphing his appreciation on his face anymore, but still, he knew his smile was rueful as their eyes met. He couldn't decipher the look on Erik's face, but that was hardly a new experience; all he could read was that it seemed to take the other man a few moments to remember to smile back.

Charles had just made up his mind to go over, when Moira materialized in front of Erik with a wine glass. She handed it to him, then immediately took him by the elbow and steered him away. Erik shot a look over his shoulder, bemused and skeptical, and Charles shrugged with a bright, unrepentant grin. "Have fun," he mouthed, to which he received a discreet two-fingered salute in response, and laughed.

It was difficult after that to turn back to the rest of the party and pretend not to have half his attention elsewhere, to pretend not to be aware of wherever Erik was in the room, or out of it. He feared he was being rude; more than once he realized he'd been attentively watching someone speak without remembering what they'd been saying. His eyes fell on the mantel clock, which told him it was just shy of eleven o'clock, and realized that he was, by any interpretation, reasonably drunk. His glass was also empty, and Erik happened to be standing by the wine. 

Charles made his way over, his pulse quickening, hoping like hell he didn't look as nervous as he felt. Erik was talking to someone and didn't see him coming. But then his conversation partner moved so Charles could see him, letting him see Charles as well. _Damn._ Nathaniel Essex was one of Charles's least favorite people-- the man had offered him a job in his think tank a few years ago, and had been quite put out when Charles had refused. It was too late to redirect, though, so Charles kept walking and let Essex's smug grin wash over him. At least it would keep him from overtly staring his adoration at Erik.

"Charles," said Essex, his voice and smile coolly disinterested, "you're dry." He snagged the nearest bottle with deft fingers and refilled Charles's glass without spilling a drop.

"Comes from hanging about a few tons of dusty paper all day," he returned, promising himself he would be nice. "How are you, Nathaniel?"

"As well as can be expected," Essex said, shrugging. "Just telling your friend Erik here how you've put your doctorates on mothballs to run a boarding house for lazy, impoverished post-grads." His smile was lazy. "How does it feel to be killing yourself for five figures a year when you could be using that marvelous mind of yours to change the world?"

Charles was stunned silent for a moment. He couldn't tell what angered him more-- that Essex could be so casually cruel and think nothing of it, or that he didn't care about insulting Charles in the middle of Moira's party. Or maybe it was the way the man's eyes lingered on Erik's as he glanced over, expecting to share a smirk at Charles's expense. 

The words were leaving his mouth before his brain caught up to the fact that he was talking. "I'd like to say I'm sorry I didn't accept your offer, Nathaniel, but the truth is I've never regretted it once. Five figures may be small change, but ten figures wouldn't be enough to make me do the kind of research you're interested in. My surname's Xavier, not Faustus."

As Nathaniel's narrow eyebrows drew together in a frown, and he looked to be gathering steam to retort, Erik's hand closed like a vise around Charles's upper arm. "Shouldn't have given him a refill," he said with a grin that was more a display of teeth than it was a smile, and then Charles found himself being dragged through the dining room and into the kitchen.

He tore his arm from Erik's grasp then, unable to bear the press of his fingers, his wine-fuzzed brain unable to fix on anything but how badly he wanted to feel that hand against his skin. "You didn't have to come to my rescue," he said, keeping his back to Erik as he went to set his glass down on the counter, splaying his hands out on the smooth granite and leaning his weight on them. "I've dealt with Nathaniel before. He just gets spiteful when he's bored."

When Erik spoke, he couldn't tell how close or far away he was, but the dryness of his tone sounded forced. "Who said I was interested in rescuing you? He had me cornered for almost fifteen minutes before you showed up."

Charles didn't reply. He found, abruptly, that he was tired of banter. He was tired of dancing around saying what he wanted, tired of telling himself to hold back. He lifted the wine glass, drained it, and set it down, and when he turned around he saw Erik was leaning back against the island across from him. The power and beauty of him hit Charles like a punch to the stomach-- his posture relaxed but somehow defiant, arms straight and loose at his sides, and such open appraisal in his face that Charles's eyes went wide, his breath hitching in his throat, and he didn't have the wherewithal to hide it.

And Erik, watching him, went still. For an agonizing heartbeat that seemed to stretch on forever, he didn't move, not so much as the twitch of an eye, while Charles found he could not have torn his eyes from Erik's face for anything. Then his lungs reminded him that he needed to breathe, and he looked away. He had to; with Erik's eyes on him, he couldn't imagine doing anything but looking back. 

"Charles," said Erik softly. 

"Yes," Charles said, his voice just as quiet. It was a question, and the answer to a question.

"Don't look away from me," Erik said. He was all of a sudden very close. The distance between them was less than a foot, and Charles looked up with his heart thudding heavy in his chest, a light remark dying on his lips unuttered at the deep, searching look Erik was giving him. "Charles," he said again, and it wasn't his imagination that Erik was leaning towards him, and he was frozen in dizzy disbelief, waiting, wanting, burning with it.

Then a roar of collective laughter burst through the walls, startling them both; Charles jumped, his heart now beating entirely faster than was healthy, and with Erik's head turned toward the sound Charles could see the accusing look on his face, the quick flutter of the vein his neck. It sent another inexplicable surge of heat through him; he wanted to put his mouth on the spot, to feel the strength of Erik's pulse with his tongue. 

He thought Erik would move away then; that the moment was fueled by wine and the heady freedom of a night off, that under normal circumstances it would never have gone this far. But then Erik turned back, staring at Charles with all the intensity and focus that filled him up and made him so compelling, drawing Charles to him as a lodestone to a magnet. Erik looked at Charles like he was everything he thought he couldn't have, and Charles thought, _Fuck it,_ and leaned up and kissed him.

He startled a sound out of Erik, who froze-- but then he moved all at once, crowding Charles against the counter, bracketing his hips with his hands on the granite, their bodies pressed together from chest to hip. That was enough to tug a soft moan from Charles, who had spent his fair share of time imagining what this might feel like, overwhelmed now with the reality of it, of Erik pressed against him. It was nothing like he'd imagined; his hand in the dip of Erik's back, feeling the leanness of him, the movement of his body as he breathed, the heat building between them, feeling himself start to melt.

And Erik kissed like he did everything else: with determination and confidence, oozing sex appeal and lazy grace. His mouth on Charles's was hot and sweet, coaxing him open with a lick and a teasing bite, kissing him like he would die without it, kissing him, kissing him. 

"Please," Charles heard himself say then, his voice a rough gasp as he tore his mouth away. "God, Erik, you're killing me." He took a deep breath, let it out slow and unsteady, realized his hands were on Erik's arms, and Erik was looking at him wide-eyed, shocked and aroused and wondering. "Please," he said again, "let's... can we..." He had lost all of his charm, all of the smooth ways he knew to invite someone to go to bed with him, and the only words his mind was supplying were _I want you_. 

"I want you," he said, then remembered some other words and added, "to come home with me. Please."

He hadn't realized how tense Erik had been until he relaxed, the fierce smile flashing across his face bordering on a laugh. "Keep saying 'please', Charles," he said, backing away with a smirk curling one corner of his mouth up. "I might get used to it."

"Does that mean yes?" Charles asked, his own smile feeling ridiculously wide on his face. 

Erik gave him that grin again, the one that promised he held all the winning cards in his hand, the one that made him feel warm from head to toe. "It means stay here, I'll go and get our coats."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for cutting it off like that... but not THAT sorry. ;) Don't worry, I'll be back with the next chapter by Saturday night, if not sooner!
> 
> Some notes on this chapter.  
> \- Nathaniel Essex is also known in Marvel comic canon as Mister Sinister, the genetics-obsessed mutant who helps Apocalypse in the 1880s and tries to eradicate the entire Summers bloodline.  
> \- At Moira's party, Charles is wearing [this](http://www3.pictures.zimbio.com/pc/James+McAvoy+Premiere+Conspirator+New+York+psYexcSxyCxl.jpg) and Erik, of course, is wearing [this](http://www3.pictures.zimbio.com/pc/Michael+Fassbender+Celebs+Arrive+X+Men+Premiere+4VFJRgk7trDl.jpg) except without the cigarette and sunglasses.  
> \- This chapter title is from Kimbra.


	6. give me fire, give me fire (it'll burn all your fear away)

Erik left the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him, and Charles's breath left him in a rush as he leaned back against the counter. He was in shock, caught between a half dozen emotions and instincts, tipsy but sobering fast with the realization that this was actually about to happen, that what had been for so long just a fantasy was turning into reality.

Before he had time to fully absorb it, however, Erik returned with his own coat on and Charles's in his hand. "Moira's not upset we're leaving?" Charles asked, shrugging into the coat and pulling his scarf out of the pocket. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she was upset; it wasn't as if it would stop him from going.

But Erik just smirked. "When I asked her for your coat, she rolled her eyes and said, 'God, Erik, what took you so long?' So, no, I don't think so."

Charles flushed. "How I love being a foregone conclusion," he said wryly, and gestured to the back door. "Shall we?" 

Outside their shoes crunched softly on the snow, more flakes lightly falling like confetti through the streetlight glow, and Charles shoved his hands in his pockets, too excited to bother with gloves. They walked in silence for a stretch, the words drumming through his mind like a mantra, _This is happening. This is really happening._ He still didn't know what he wanted from this, from Erik, or what Erik wanted from him, but for once Charles found himself at peace with leaping before he looked-- tonight, just this one night, he didn't have to care where he landed.

He almost missed the turn for his street. With Erik beside him, he was only half attentive to anything else, and the knowledge of what they were going home to do robbed him of most of the rest of his wits. They stopped at a crosswalk and Charles hit the button for the walk signal, his eyes drawn up to Erik's face, glad to stop pretending he wasn't staring. Erik was already looking back at him, a strange, unfamiliar guardedness in his eyes. 

_He's as nervous as I am,_ Charles realized abruptly. The thought made his heart race faster. The walk signal beeped and Erik started across the street, making Charles walk fast to catch up. When they hit the sidewalk on the opposite side, Charles got closer, close enough to let his shoulder nudge against Erik's arm as they walked. When Erik didn't pull away, Charles leaned into it more, gratified to feel a slight pressure from Erik leaning back. 

"Is it far?" he asked, his voice half swallowed by the snow-muffled street.

"Just up here," Charles said. He glanced up again, amused. "You mean Moira didn't take it upon herself to give you my address?"

Erik smiled back. "No. But I flatter myself she had enough faith in my powers of persuasion that she didn't think I would need it." 

They were outside Charles's building then, and he stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning to look into Erik's face. They were still close, just inches apart, and impulsively he wrapped his hand around Erik's wrist, his thumb slipping inside the cuff of his coat to press against the warm skin there. "She was right," he said. "You've been persuading me for a long time."

Erik's eyes flashed with something Charles couldn't read, and his hand twisted in Charles's grip to twine their fingers hard together, his other hand steadying Charles's elbow as he bent to kiss him, his mouth fierce and possessive though they barely touched anywhere else. He kissed like he never intended to let Charles go, and it never crossed Charles's mind to argue.

At last Erik broke free. "Take me upstairs," he said, low and rough, and Charles went up the steps and led him in out of the snow, his heart drumming hard in his chest. His lips tingled from Erik's biting kiss, he was half-hard in his trousers, and yet disbelief was still the overriding emotion. Objectively he knew this was real, but his brain refused to connect it with any of the parts of his life that made sense. He felt like he should be wondering whether he'd wake up tomorrow to find this had been a dream.

 _Well, if it is one, I'm going to bloody well make the most of it,_ he thought, stopping outside his door to pick out the key. Then Erik was behind him, a hand on his hip, breath warm on the back of his neck, and Charles forgot what he was doing, forgot everything except the fact that there were far too many layers between them and too many doors between them and a bed. "Wait," he breathed, feeling for the key again, fingers clumsy as he fit it into the lock. 

"I've _been_ waiting," Erik murmured, teeth grazing his nape. Charles had to close his eyes as a shiver went through him; he didn't make a sound, but it was a near miss. 

"So have I," he said, turning his head just enough to catch Erik's face in the corner of his eye, his profile outlined, charcoal against black, in the dim light from the stairwell window. "You've no idea how long." He felt Erik's soft exhale against his skin and wanted more than anything to lean back into his warmth, to let go and melt against him. But he'd been alone in his bed for far too long, and the sight of Erik spread naked across it was one he'd imagined too often to pass up.

He pushed the door open and went in, dropped his keys on the table inside, started unbuttoning his coat. Still in darkness, he felt Erik's fingers wrap around his shoulder and turned into him, let him pull his coat off. Charles gave into a desire he'd harbored for months and slid his fingers into Erik's hair, pressing against the curve of his skull, pulling him down into a hungry kiss. He felt and heard Erik's muffled groan in response, almost a growl that vibrated against his lips, and that was the end of Charles's composure. He made quick work of Erik's coat, shoving it down his shoulders; he felt Erik toss it aside and started on his own suit jacket, wanting to be rid of as many layers as quickly as possible.

Erik stopped him, fingers brushing Charles's aside and working at his buttons, a thrill skating up Charles's spine at the edge in his voice, rough and wanting. "I assume you have a bedroom." Erik's hands were everywhere, pulling at Charles's jacket, his tie, his belt like he couldn't decide which should go first. "We should go there, so I don't end up ravishing you on your living room floor."

Charles made a sound that was half a laugh, half a moan, his hands wrapped around Erik's forearms almost for support. His clothes half undone, he was ready to let Erik have him wherever he wanted-- but he made himself move, pulling Erik down the hallway and elbowing into his room where the closet light was still on, giving him enough light to see by for the first time since they'd left the dull glow of the streetlight outside. "Home sweet home," Charles said, toeing off his shoes, peeling off his socks. "The rest of it's very nice as well, I promise."

"Couldn't care less," Erik replied. True to his word, he barely looked around, barely seemed to see anything in the room except Charles and the bed behind him.

Charles tried to smile, but the way Erik was looking at him, wild and intent, had made him forget how. It undid something inside him, made him feel raw and stripped and whittled away, made him want to crawl inside Erik's skin and share his breath until he understood everything about him. It was a terrifying feeling. Wanting Erik had been instinctive, something he'd metabolized as part of their friendship long since, and he hadn't let himself consider the intersection of wanting and liking, or what the meld of the two might become.

"You're too dressed," he said, not at all eloquent. His heart was still beating dangerously fast, his voice unsteady as Erik came toward him, his eyes hot and possessive, raking him head to toe. Adrenaline flooded him, a mix of lust and nerves that made him dizzy, his mouth gone dry with anticipation, a hectic flush heating his cheeks.

"Kiss me," Charles breathed, feeling he might die without it. From the speed with which Erik complied, the feeling was mutual.

The distance between them vanished as Erik's arm came around Charles's waist and he seemed to remember his earlier threat of ravishing; he kissed like a challenge, tipping Charles's head back with a hand on his neck while his other pulled at Charles's tie, every touch and kiss like a question demanding an answer. 

Somehow he worked Erik's tie free, somehow managed the buttons on his shirt without tearing them off. Erik wouldn't stop kissing him, deep hungry kisses that left Charles moaning into his mouth, and then Erik's shirt was open and his skin was warm and smooth under Charles's hands. He hissed at the shock of it, heat stroking through him like lightning, and pressed closer though there was hardly anywhere closer for him to get. 

"God, I want you," Erik murmured into his neck, nibbling up the line of his throat, and it took all of Charles's willpower to remain standing. He clutched at Erik's shoulder with one hand, the other slipping into his hair again, arching into his mouth with a deep shiver. 

He made himself move, stepped back until his legs hit the bed, pulling Erik with him. "I want you, too," he said, unable to tear his eyes from Erik's face, blurred but still beautiful in the semi-dark room. "But I'd rather you not ravish me on my bedroom floor either." He sat and leaned back on his elbows, all the longing in him showing on his face as he looked up at Erik. "Come here."

"With pleasure," Erik murmured, leaning down, his hand sinking into the bed, one knee sliding between Charles's. He kissed hard, claiming, insistent, and Charles yielded to it, his hands curled loose against Erik's chest, a low helpless moan building in the back of his throat. He was flushed, burning as he hadn't burned for anyone in years, maybe ever, and overwhelmed by how completely he wanted to surrender to the feeling. 

Minutes passed while they made out like teenagers, clinging to each other, needy and desperate. Then Erik pulled away and abruptly stood up, leaving Charles lust-struck and bewildered until he realized Erik was pulling off his shirt the rest of the way, undoing his belt-- _stripping,_ Charles's brain supplied the word, and he let himself stare, watching unabashed until Erik paused, his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his trousers, and smirked at him.

"Bit of a voyeur, are you, Charles?" he teased. 

Charles grinned. "If you expected me to stop you..." But he sat up and undid his belt, got rid of his shirt, then paused with his hands on his fly. He breathed in, then for the second time that night thought, _Oh, fuck it,_ and pulled off his trousers and briefs in one smooth motion. 

Erik's eyes went wide, and Charles exulted at having surprised him before Erik shucked the rest of his clothes aside and came back to the bed. Charles reclined against the pillows, his heart in his throat as Erik knelt next to him. Charles reached up, ran a hand down his side to his hip, gentle pressure urging Erik on top of him. It was then his fingers encountered the fine webwork of scar tissue, raised like Braille under his fingertips. The light in the room was too dim to see what he was touching, but as his hand ran the length of Erik's thigh he felt the ridges, the places where the flesh had knitted over deep wounds. 

"Car accident," Erik said softly, taking Charles's hand away, lifting it to his lips. He kissed the center of Charles's palm, warm and gentle, and said, "It was a long time ago." His eyes were half shut, but Charles could see Erik looking at him as he kissed the tips of his fingers, one by one. "Some scars," said Erik, between the ring and middle fingers, "don't fade with time." By this point Charles's hand was tingling, his whole body on the verge of trembling with the effort it took to remain still. Distantly, in a separate part of his brain still capable of following a train of thought, he understood what Erik was telling him. He understood what it meant that Erik was sharing this with him, and promised himself he would respond, when his brain cells weren't being corroded by Erik's mouth on his skin.

When Erik paused with his index finger barely an inch from his lips, Charles held his breath. Erik waited; as soon as he exhaled, Erik's tongue slicked hot and wet up the length of his finger. For a few seconds he saw stars. A tortured sound escaped him, and Erik grinned. "Is that what you want, Charles?" he murmured, sucking lightly on his fingertip, smiling again at the noise he made. "My mouth?"

Charles tried to reply, but his first breath whooshed out of him and garbled it. He took another, battling his racing heartbeat for control of his body. "God, yes," he managed at last, "yes, Erik. Please."

Erik let his hand drop and leaned down, until there was barely more than an inch between their bodies and Charles was fighting the urge to reach for him, to tangle himself up in Erik and kiss him until they ran out of air. Erik kissed him, a feather-light brush against Charles's mouth, then his jaw, the shell of his ear. No heat, barely any pressure, just the soft press of Erik's mouth to his skin. _Oh God,_ Charles thought, realizing what sweet torment he'd brought upon himself. 

By the time Erik's mouth reached his neck he could tell his hands were trembling; by halfway down his chest he was biting his lip to hold in a moan, his hands twisting in the duvet. "You're a bastard," he gritted out, and Erik lifted his head enough to smile at him. 

"I've wanted you naked underneath me for months, Charles," he said. "I'm going to take my time. I hope you don't mind," he added in a mockery of concern. 

"God, no," Charles breathed, shivering openly as Erik resumed his slow meandering path downward. He was cruelly hard, aching for it, for whatever Erik would give him. With anyone else he might have been embarrassed by how easy it was to reduce him to a breathless wreck-- but with anyone else, Charles knew, it wouldn't be like this. He'd spent the entirety of his back-alley adventure in New York less turned on than he'd been kissing Erik fully clothed in Moira's kitchen. This was different.

Erik's tongue trailing up the hollow of his hip slammed him out of his thoughts again, back into his oversensitized body just in time to look down and watch Erik shift to the other side, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on Charles's thigh as his tongue dragged across the narrow jut of his hipbone. 

"Tease," Charles gasped, and Erik's eyes were fever-bright as he looked up, one side of his mouth hooking in a wicked smirk. 

"Tease implies I won't follow through," he said, curling one hand around the base of Charles's cock, ignoring the shudder that coursed through him, still looking up at Charles with all his intent and desire written clear across his face. "I promise I'm going to follow through and then some," he said, and dropped his head to take Charles in his mouth. 

An involuntary sound, low and desperate, tore from Charles's throat as his body arched, drawn tight as a wire, overwhelmed by sensation after minutes of those light frictionless kisses. This was everything those teasing touches had taunted him with and more, incredible heat and the firm stroke of Erik's tongue, his free hand firm on Charles's hip as he lay sprawled between his thighs, holding him down. Charles would be lying if he said he'd never thought of this, never gotten off on thinking of it, but even his well-developed imagination couldn't have dreamed it would be this good. He was gasping for breath now, moaning himself raw, but he couldn't stop. His hands threaded through Erik's hair and he fought to keep still.

Erik stopped suddenly, pulled off him with a slow, languorous lick, ignoring Charles's wordless cry of protest. "Don't hold back," he warned, dark and hoarse. Charles wanted to argue, but then Erik was on him again, and words were beyond him. 

_Don't hold back_ , he'd said, so Charles didn't. His fingers splayed around Erik's head again, light pressure at the nape of his neck, and he gave up trying to be considerate, gave up on everything but giving in. He bent one knee, digging his heel into the bed, thrusting up as Erik's head dipped lower, taking more of him in. He did it again, felt Erik's head move, a shift in angle to accommodate him, felt Erik's free hand clench around his thigh, hard enough to bruise. He heard his own moan (loud and broken, pornographic, _Jesus_ , he'd be embarrassed if he didn't think he were dying of pleasure), felt it echoed in Erik's throat, vibrating around him, and it lit a spark somewhere inside him that traveled up his spine like a fuse. He gasped, fingers twisting in Erik's hair, pulling hard as his body curled up and he choked out, "Erik--" But Erik ignored him, just kept going, and only when Charles's head slammed back against the pillows with his vision whiting out did Erik finally go still.

Charles didn't waste a second; as soon as Erik started to sit up, Charles hauled him up the bed and kissed him, licking the taste of himself out of Erik's mouth, pressing against him with an arm around his waist, tangling their legs together. "Oh my God," he breathed, still post-orgasmic and incoherent. 

Erik gave a lazy smile in response, his eyes half-lidded, and Charles was hit with the urgent need to return the favor, to make Erik as broken and breathless as he was. He braced his arm against the bed and rolled them, stretching out on top of Erik, pressing him into the sheets, grinning as he rolled his hips and Erik's breath hissed through his teeth in response.

"What do you want?" he asked, his lips tracing the line of Erik's neck, his tongue running flat and warm over Erik's pulse.

Erik's breath huffed out like a silent laugh, one hand gliding open-palmed against Charles's back. "I'll make you a list," he murmured. "Right now, I want your hands on me." His eyes searched Charles's. "I want your mouth, but I'm not going to last long," he admitted, looking chagrined. 

Charles was in no rush. He felt, and was almost certain Erik did too, that this wasn't going to be their only time together. They'd both admitted to a degree of want that would take more than one night, no matter how passionate, to slake. Charles didn't mind taking it slow-- as much as he wanted to fuck Erik, to get fucked in return, he'd waited so long that even Erik's hand in his hair felt sensuous and erotic.

That hand shifted, carding through Charles's hair and dropping to his cheek, thumb tracing his lower lip. Erik's voice dropped into that low, shivering register as he said, "Next time, though... next time I want everything."

"Next time?" Charles repeated, bemused and delighted and more than a little turned on. 

"Yes," Erik said, bending his arm behind his head, his mouth half-curved in a smile. "That list I mentioned... I may have already made it." 

Charles laughed, leaning up to brush his mouth against the corner of Erik's. "I look forward to working through it." 

Something in Erik's eyes changed, then, and his hand shifted down to link his fingers with Charles's, bringing them up to his mouth. "Stop talking," he said, licking a broad stripe up the center of Charles's palm.

"Oh," Charles breathed, watching wide-eyed and wondering how he could possibly be getting turned on again this quickly, as Erik licked his palm and fingers and guided his hand down to wrap around his cock. 

They both gasped at the first stroke; then Erik threw an arm around Charles's neck and hauled him down so their foreheads bumped, bit into Charles's mouth with a harsh kiss and hissed, "More." 

"Wait, wait," Charles babbled, pulling away just enough to reach for the bedside table. His fingers shook as he uncapped the bottle of lube, and once his fingers were slick with it he dropped it off the side of the bed, not caring where it went. It was heady, feeling Erik's muscles tremble under his hands, the delicious twist of Erik's body tangled up with his, hearing the sounds he made, broken open and hungry. Charles had sobered up since they'd left Moira's, but he felt dizzy now, his head swirling as all his focus turned to the soft begging sounds Erik was making, and getting him to make more of them. 

Erik was right; it wasn't more than a few minutes before he began to unravel. His hands dropped to the bed, twisting in the sheets, his whole body flushed with exertion and arousal, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. "Fuck," he swore, "Charles, _yes,_ God--" and then he was arching up off the bed, every muscle in his body tensed as he came. 

They collapsed in a heap on top of each other, breathing hard and heedless of the mess they'd made. They stayed that way for several minutes, not needing to talk or even to meet each other's eyes. Charles's hand curled loose against Erik's thigh, running a thumb over the soft skin there, while Erik's fingers ruffled the ends of Charles's hair. It was lazy and lovely, but their skin was cooling fast, and Charles knew from experience that if he didn't make himself move now, he'd curl into Erik like a cat and wake up in the morning freezing and uncomfortable. He got up on the far side of the bed and picked up a t-shirt off the floor to clean himself up with, then pulled back the sheets, went to his chest of drawers and got out two pairs of pajama pants.

He turned around to see Erik sorting through the heap of clothes on the floor, picking out the things that were his. Charles's eyebrows drew together and he blurted, "You're leaving?"

Erik turned, surprise scrawled clearly across his face. "I was thinking about it," he said.

Charles abruptly remembered Erik's children, and felt like a heel. "I'm sorry-- I should've remembered-- of course you've got to get back--"

"The twins are with the nanny," Erik said. "I just thought--"

Charles debated the wisdom of pushing this-- was it too fast for a sleepover? Maybe-- certainly by the standards of most gay men in Charles's experience-- but hadn't they just acknowledged this was in no way going to be a one time event? They hadn't made any confessions of feelings beyond the strong mutual feeling that they should be naked together more often. And if Charles was having flutters that might be more than mere lust, well, it wasn't as if sharing a bed for the night would suddenly make him profess them all in the morning.

Erik cocked an eyebrow at him, and Charles made up his mind fast. He threw the second pair of pajama pants at Erik. "I think we've just proved my bed is more than big enough for both of us. Do you really want to go back out in that?" he added, pointing at the window.

"No," Erik allowed after a long pause. 

Charles didn't know what the shifting emotions showing on Erik's face were, but he was too exhausted and sated to even consider talking about it. "Then stay," he said firmly, pulling on his own pants. "I want you to." He got into the bed and threw back the covers on Erik's side, looking up at him expectantly.

A measure of tension seemed to leave Erik's shoulders, and he nodded, though he didn't smile. "Alright. But I warn you I'm a terrible blanket hog."

Charles yawned again, settling into his pillow. "I'll manage. Turn the light out before you lie down."

The last thing Charles remembered before sleep claimed him was a dip on the other side of the mattress, the soft sounds of Erik settling in, and the light touch of a hand pressing briefly against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I totally meant to have this up sooner, but between some pretty extensive editing and being at a conference for most of last week, it just didn't come together until today. But here you go! Hope this is as satisfying for you to read as it was for me to get my claws back into. :) Huge thanks to ladysaraj for helping me rework this chapter in a major way. Chapter title from the Neon Trees.


	7. nonstop baby you got me going crazy

The first time Charles was dragged from sleep the next morning, the bed was striped with light filtering in through the blinds, and Erik was moving around the room getting dressed. Charles turned over, shifting into the warm space he'd left behind, peering at him with half-open eyes. "Morning," he said, his voice rusty.

"Yes," Erik agreed, buttoning his cuffs. "An early one." He'd already found his trousers and vest; now here was his jacket and tie. His own jacket was on the living room floor, Charles remembered with a smile. 

"I could make breakfast," he offered. What he really meant was _You don't have to leave yet_ , but he didn't say that aloud. He wasn't sure yet what the boundaries were-- what was okay to offer, what was okay to want-- besides a lot more of what he'd gotten last night, anyway. It was a relief to be allowed that much-- he wasn't going to push it.

Erik smiled, came back to the bed and sat on the edge of it, close enough to touch but not touching. "Some of us have stores to run," he said, his voice light, belying the intent in his eyes as he looked at Charles. Charles wished, briefly, that he could know for sure what was going on in Erik's mind, that he could see himself with Erik's eyes and know what it was in his face when he looked at him like that. 

"I always take the day after Moira's party off," Charles said, grinning unrepentantly as he stretched beneath the covers. He was going to follow it by saying _You should remember that for next year,_ when he remembered with a jolt that next year Erik wouldn't be here. 

His smile slipped a little and Erik must have caught it, because his expression grew serious. His head canted to one side and he looked at Charles carefully. "We're going to have to talk about this, aren't we," he said, sounding resigned.

Charles was surprised to discover that actually, he really didn't want to. "What for?" he asked, shrugging. "You're leaving in a few months. That's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves while you're here." He hadn't planned to say it, but as the words came out of his mouth they felt right. "We've been friends. We can keep being that." His mouth quirked. "Plus a bit extra, if you like. I certainly would."

Erik's eyes warmed, and he nodded. "Yes. I would as well."

Charles grinned. "Good. Now go away," he said, burrowing into the sheets again. "Some of us have beauty rest to catch up on."

Erik rolled his eyes and got up, unable to entirely hide his smile. "Lazy," he taunted, pulling on his suit jacket.

"Mmm," Charles agreed, his back arching as he stretched again. "Jealous."

Erik's eyes narrowed, the look Charles was starting to recognize as the face he made when he was holding himself back from something-- in this case, presumably returning to join Charles in the bed. "Stop it," he said, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "I'll play hooky with you someday perhaps, but not today." He leaned down and kissed Charles lightly on the mouth, already straightening as Charles tried to yank a hand free of the blankets to pull him back.

Erik backed away, buttoning his jacket, a little smirk hovering about his lips. "Thanks for having me over," he said, as if he'd done nothing more than drop in for tea. 

"My pleasure," Charles said, grinning shamelessly back. He watched him go, then rolled over into the covers again, closing his eyes as he heard Erik let himself out. 

When he woke up next it was to the sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. It was later now, past eleven, and Charles heaved himself out of bed with a sigh. He felt better rested than he had in weeks, and compared to previous mornings following Moira's Christmas party, he could say unequivocally that post-coital beat hungover by a country mile. 

"I hope you put on coffee," he shouted down the hall as he walked into the bathroom. 

"Ha," Raven called back, "like I'd even think of trying to deal with you this morning without it." When he came into the kitchen a minute later it was to find her sitting at the table with the Times open in front of her, reading the comics page and eating a croissant. A mug steamed next to her, and another sat at Charles's place.

"Morning," he said with a little smile, kissing the top of her head as he came around the table to take his chair. She slid the crossword over to him without comment, a pen already clipped to the top of it. He scanned it, sipping his coffee, then looked up at her, waiting for her to talk to him.

"So," she said after a minute, laying the paper down and folding her hands on top of it. "Good night?"

Charles grinned. "Very."

She eyed him like a schoolmarm, patient, but expecting to disapprove. "Should I be giving you the silent treatment right now?"

Charles's grin broadened; he could tell he was flushing. "Definitely not."

An answering grin broke over her face like a wave, and she squealed, flapping her hands a little. "Oh my god, really? When I threw down the gauntlet I never thought you'd actually pick it up! Charles!" She vaulted out of her chair and hugged him, quick and fierce, and sat back down still grinning. "Tell me!"

He was definitely blushing now. "There isn't-- I mean it wasn't-- I don't really know how it happened," he said honestly. "He was there, in this suit-- my God, Raven, you would have died-- and I was a little drunk-- really, only a little," he protested at her skeptical look. "And then Nathaniel bloody Essex was chatting him up and making snide comments about me not coming to work for him, and then we were snogging in Moira's kitchen and I just, I told him to come home with me. And he did." 

Raven was still grinning at him, proud as if she'd had a hand in it (though he supposed the suit she'd picked out for him _had_ had something to do with it). "Well," she admitted, sounding a little guilty, "I did figure-- I mean I know that doesn't belong to you, so..." 

She trailed off, pointing behind Charles, and he turned to look. Through the wide doorway into the living room Charles could see, right beside his navy suit jacket, Erik's purple tie hanging on the coat rack. He snorted a laugh and turned back to face her. "Yes, well," he said, but didn't actually know what to say. He wasn't going to explain that it had ended up on the floor last night, that Erik had hung it there, obviously on purpose-- to ensure he had a reason to come back, maybe? If he was worried about not getting another invitation, Charles would have to disabuse him of the notion as quickly as possible.

Raven was quietly laughing into her coffee. "What?" he asked. He couldn't seem to keep the smile off his face. 

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and trying unsuccessfully to stop giggling. "You just-- it's nice to see you like this." She sipped her coffee while he came back to the table. "Okay, so two incredibly serious questions. One, was it as ridiculously good as those months and _months_ of exhausting foreplay would imply? And two, did you talk about it?" 

"In reverse order," Charles said, "yes... and _hell_ yes." He tried not to sound smug, and failed. 

Raven made an exaggerated gagging face, then resumed her composed posture, hands folded over the Family Circus. "Okay, good, I'd be devastated on your behalf otherwise. But so you talked. What... what did you say? What did _he_ say?"

Charles looked rueful. "Not much, I'm afraid. We settled on being friends, plus a bit extra. He's leaving in a few months. It seemed..."

"Cowardly," Raven said wryly, "but understandable."

"It's not," he protested. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Why let myself fall for him? Why pretend we could-- could _date_ , or, or develop anything lasting, when..."

"When he's going to be gone," Raven finished, her eyes full of sympathy. She didn't reach for his hand, but he felt the gesture in the way she looked at him.

"Yeah." Charles took another sip of his coffee and tore into the croissant with a slight shrug. "Still. Screw him as many times as I can, right? Well, one down, however many to go." 

Raven grinned, picked up her coffee cup and clinked it against his. "That's the spirit."

Charles had a sudden flash of memory then, of Erik kneeling over him in the dark, his hand on Erik's thigh, the scars he'd felt, of Erik's confession. _Car accident_ , he'd said, and _It was a long time ago_. So Erik had been in the car during the accident that killed his mother. Charles had never experienced a loss like that, and imagining it made his heart ache for Erik, made him feel angry and righteous and oddly thankful, that Erik had trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

"Whoa," said Raven, chuckling, "Earth to Charles. You just went somewhere else for a minute there."

He smiled. "Sorry. I'm back now." He tucked his musings about Erik away for now; there would be plenty of time to brood later. "Enough about me. How was your night?"

Raven launched into a tale about her is-it-or-isn't-it date with Hank the night before, and Charles listened as he ate his croissant, offering the appropriate big-brotherly reactions where needed, getting up to refill their mugs when they emptied. He always enjoyed the chance to spend time with Raven like this, and when she breezed out an hour later on her way back to the shop (kissing the top of his head and snickering as she passed the hook where Erik's tie hung) Charles realized he felt content, relaxed in a way he hadn't felt in months.

It didn't take a Ph.D. to realize that the start of Charles's turmoil could easily be dated to the appearance of Erik Lehnsherr in his life, but Charles knew that the entire reason for it was not Erik himself but his shop, the place he stood in opposition to Charles, that had nothing to do with who they were and only to do with what they both happened to do for a living. 

It seemed unfair, that something which should have brought them together came so close to getting between them. But Charles couldn't bring himself to angst over it any longer. He didn't plan to stop his efforts to expand Bindings' clientele, and he didn't plan to stop seeing as much of Erik as he could manage. Neither would be an issue for him in six months; he might as well stay busy while he had the chance.

Interrupting his train of thought, he heard his cell phone beep from the pocket of his jacket, where it had been since last night. "Bugger," he said aloud, getting up and going to retrieve it. "I can only imagine what havoc Alex is wreaking in the shop alone right now..." But when he got the phone out, the text he had wasn't from Alex.

He flipped it open and saw _Erik Lehnsherr_ had been programmed into the phone. He was glad there was no one there to witness his delighted laugh as he took the phone back to the table where his coffee was cooling. There were two texts, one from several hours before, and one from just now. 

_I took the liberty of putting my number in_ , the first one said. _It's well past time we knew how to contact one another without pretending to drop by for a coffee._

"I really did want coffee that time," Charles protested, laughing. He scrolled to the next message.

_Please tell me you're not still in bed_. He could hear Erik's sardonic tone all over the words.

Grinning, Charles replied. _Would you come back here if I was?_ It was a Herculean effort not to sit and stare at the phone until he replied; he made himself get up and wash the dishes instead. When the phone finally did beep, he almost dropped a plate in his haste to pick the phone back up.

_I'm tempted_ , read the reply.

Charles bit his lip over a grin. _Well, you know what Oscar Wilde says about temptation._

The reply came almost immediately. _You'll have to do better than that, Xavier._

_"The temptation to behave is terrible." Brecht, in case you didn't recognize it_. Charles topped off his coffee cup again and went into the living room, curling up on the sofa. 

_God, you like Brecht, we can't ever speak again._

Charles laughed, already replying. _Philistine. He was brilliant. "There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice."_

_Mark Twain. What, exactly, is it you think I'm afraid of?_ Charles could sense the wariness in it, and decided to abandon the game in favor of straightforward honesty.

_I don't, actually. I'm just trying to goad you into coming back over here. Can you blame me?_ He waited a minute, then two, then five. He began to wonder if he'd actually offended Erik, though he'd seen him show annoyance and didn't think this was it.

Just as he was about to text again, the phone beeped with another alert. It was only one word: _Hardly_. Charles frowned, wondering how he was meant to reply to that, when he was startled by a knock at the door.

He got to his feet, trying to hold in the ridiculous smile that twitched the corners of his lips, trying to get out; if it wasn't Erik at the door, he didn't want to offend whoever it was by showing disappointment.

He wasn't disappointed. When he opened the door, Erik slipped through and elbowed it shut behind him, already shrugging out of his coat and scarf. 

"Hi," said Charles brightly, letting the grin have free reign over his face, his pulse quickening. Instead of answering, Erik dropped his gloves on the floor and reached for him, dragging him into a fierce kiss. His hands rucked up Charles's t-shirt, slipping underneath, and Charles gasped at the sensation of cold hands against his skin.

"I have forty-five minutes," Erik said into the kiss, parting just enough to pull Charles's shirt over his head. His hands slid down Charles's back, and Charles shivered, already hard and arching into the touch. 

"Good," he said, pulling Erik back toward the couch. "That's long enough to knock off a few of the things on that list you mentioned, don't you think?" He pushed Erik down and climbed on top of him, kissing him as his hands worked their way inside Erik's clothes. 

He felt Erik laugh against his mouth, Erik's arms coming around his waist, and thought, _Lead me not into temptation; I can find the way on my own._

\---

Going back to work on Monday reminded Charles of why the phrase "rat race" had become synonymous with the workplace environment. Armando had come down with the flu and had to call out, Alex was distracted by the apparent need to text him every half hour to make sure he was still alive, Sean was trying to pick up the slack from everyone else and getting increasingly manic about it with every cup of coffee he consumed. Charles, meanwhile, felt like the ringmaster of a traveling circus, and what with their weekly shipment needing to be checked in, he didn't have a thought to spare all day for anything but the next crisis on the list.

Hank came in at four, at which point Charles escaped to the office and buried his head in his arms. He stayed that way for five minutes, then sat up and called the pizza shop around the corner for a delivery. Then he called Moira.

"I think you should prepare for the eventuality of finding someone to take over my shop in February," he said by way of greeting. "This Christmas is going to kill me."

She laughed. "You say that every year." 

Charles shrugged. "Point. But every time I think it's gotten as bad as it can get, I'm proven wrong."

"Well, it can't be the _worst_ year ever," she said, suddenly sounding sly. "Previous years, you didn't have Erik."

Charles reddened. "Another point to you. But I'm not really sure I can be said to 'have' him. I'm not quite sure what I have, truth be told."

"Hopefully lots of fantastic sex," Moira said, and Charles laughed.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he teased.

"Terribly," she sighed. "But I can respect your privacy."

"Meaning you'll just grill him about it next time you see him," Charles retorted.

"Ooh, point to Xavier," she said, chuckling. Her next words were serious, however. "He ought to expect to be grilled, and not just by me."

"Whatever for? Moira, I am a grown man, I don't need you and Raven--"

"You are a grown man, and therefore a bit of an idiot, especially where emotions are concerned," she interrupted. "You always think the best of everyone, Charles, you never think anyone is going to hurt you until they pull the rug out from under you."

"That's not going to happen with Erik," he said. "I know exactly what to expect from him."

"Don't say that," Moira said, and he could hear the concern in her voice. "You can never know all of a person, no matter how close you get to them. And something tells me Erik isn't easy to get close to."

Charles said nothing; how could he argue with something that was true? Moira let the silence hang for a second, but she seemed to know she'd made her point, and changed the subject. "Anyway, I'm glad things are going your way. And judging by how busy you sound, it appears the shop is doing well too?"

He nodded. "Yes... That is, yes, it is. Doing well. I'm just still not sure how well. It's basically all a numbers game at this point... We made enough in November to pay the back balance on our European supplier, now we just need to beat December by enough to pay off the domestic, and we'll be set. I've got some private orders coming through next week, so... yes, I'm hopeful."

"Good," Moira said, her smile audible. "I'm glad to hear you optimistic, Charles. It's... I've missed it."

He grinned. "Me too, Moira." There was a knock on the back door and he jumped. "Bugger, the pizza's here. I've got to go."

"Talk to you later," she said, and hung up.

It was after ten o'clock, and Charles was home and undressed and sitting on his bed before he remembered to fish his phone out of his bag and check his messages. He had two; one from Erik and one from Raven. Hers said _Don't forget, Rochester Wednesday to Friday this week. Did you change your lunch with Ororo to next week yet?_ The one from Erik was from eleven o'clock that morning, and read _Got any plans for lunch today?_

"I wish," Charles said aloud, shaking his head as he wrote back. _If only. I think it's a testament to the kind of day I've had that I'm only seeing this now._

A few minutes later, he got a reply. _I was beginning to wonder if you were repenting of your weekend now that you're back to the daily grind._

_God, no,_ he wrote. _Just preoccupied. A sick employee and his panicking boyfriend, our shipment came a day early, and it was busier than any Monday has a right to be. I'm about thirty seconds from being unconscious right now. I wouldn't ignore you._

_I believe you. Get some sleep._ Charles plugged in the phone and shut off the light, and was mostly asleep when another message came through. He grabbed for it and had to read the message twice before it sunk in. _Glad you're not regretting it either._

He laughed out loud. _Definitely not,_ he sent back.

_Your thirty seconds are up. Sleep well._

"You too," Charles said aloud, asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, I am so sorry for the wait on this, but I didn't want to post another of the previously-posted chapters until I had a decent chunk of the next new chapter written, and after two insane months of work and travel and every kind of RL insanity ever, here we are! 
> 
> This one's pretty short and sweet, and I should have the next one up within the next few days as I try to plow through new material. :) Thanks to everyone for the kudos and comments on the last couple of chapters-- I've said it before on the kink meme and I'll say it again, it means the absolute world to me to know that you guys are enjoying my story. :)


	8. baby, we'll be fine

The Amtrak from Albany to Rochester was a little over four hours. Tuesday night had brought on a fresh dusting of snow, and Charles sat by the window to watch the frosted countryside roll by. He spent some time on his computer, making a few appointments for the following week, but mostly he looked out the window, lost in thought.

He knew, clinically and biologically speaking, that the feeling of being on cloud nine was partially an endorphin high. That he'd gone so long with nothing more than the occasional hookup that getting laid four times in seventy-two hours was like a drug in its intensity. His body was reacting; it was physical, chemical, and he should treat it as such. But he couldn't bring that objectivity to bear on the reality of Erik in his bed. 

Last night they had undressed each other with a fervor bordering on frenzy and fallen into bed gasping, grinding against each other, insatiable. He shivered now, remembering. Erik had thrown him down among the pillows, hands and mouth relentless on Charles's body until he was half delirious, tortured and pleading for more. _Take me,_ he'd begged. _God, Erik, please, fuck me._ And Erik had, fierce and reckless as a hurricane, wielding that magnificent body like a weapon, sparing Charles not an inch and leaving him ruined in the aftermath. He had bruises in the shape of Erik's hands today, scattered across his hips and thighs, the imprint of Erik's teeth on his shoulder. His whole body was sore and satisfied, he was exhausted, and still the thought of Erik sent a thrill through him. 

The train jerked to a stop in Syracuse, people shuffling on and off, and Charles shifted in his seat, guilty as if his thoughts were stamped on his forehead. He took out a book, a well-thumbed copy of Sherlock Holmes, and let his eyes wander the pages with only half his attention behind them. He spent the rest of the train ride trying not to think about Erik too much, not surprised that he failed more often than not. 

In Rochester, Charles had a full day ahead of him. The first estate sale turned out to be something of a bust, which had him apprehensive as he drove toward the second. The feeling only intensified as he pulled into the driveway and saw he was not the first, the second, or even the tenth person to arrive there. The house was enormous, but as Charles walked up the steps and into the foyer he found it crowded. _Please let this not turn out to be a waste of my time,_ he thought in a vaguely upward direction as he shed his coat and hung it up.

"Excuse me," he said, approaching a redheaded woman who appeared to be giving directions. "I made an appointment to see the man in charge of this sale, I was wondering where I might find him?"

The woman smiled, but Charles could read the harried look behind it. "Yes, Mr. Xavier, I remember. Usually we don't make appointments on sale days, but you were very insistent." She held out a hand. "I'm Jean Grey."

Charles recognized her voice, then, as the one he'd spoken to on the phone the week before. "A pleasure, Miss Grey. I appreciate you making an exception for me-- for a small bookshop who depends on this kind of business quite a bit, it's very much appreciated."

"I understand. Please, come this way, let's see if we can find Mr. Creed." As she walked, she chatted amiably with him about the house, the late owner, his train ride, not speaking of her employer or their potential business relationship in such a clever way that Charles hardly noticed. The thought ran through Charles's head, idle curiosity of what sort of man this might be, about a second before a door down the hall banged open and the sounds of shouting floated audibly towards them.

"--stupid ass with mud for brains--"

"--have the sense God gave a canary--"

"--go suck a rock, you weasel--"

Jean Grey sighed, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temples. "Wonderful," she muttered, then turned to Charles quickly as someone stomped out of the room at the end of the hall and came toward them. "I apologize in advance," she said gravely, then turned back to face the onslaught with a brave face.

To say the man coming toward them was intimidating would have been an understatement-- despite the fact that Charles had more than a couple of inches on him, the other man had him by at least forty pounds, all of them muscle. His dark hair stood up wildly as if he'd been running his hands through it; combined with a pair of tattered jeans and a worn plaid shirt, he looked a little like a feral lumberjack. The cigar tucked behind one ear only completed the picture.

"He's fired," the newcomer growled, before the woman could open her mouth. "No, better yet, I'm fired. Can we fire me? I think we should fire me. Then I can go back to Manitoba and live out the rest of my days surrounded by my own fucking antiques and never give a good goddamn about anybody else's. Who the hell's this?" he concluded, gesturing at Charles. 

"I'm Charles Xavier," Charles began.

"Like I give a shit," the man retorted, turning back to the determined young woman with a glare. "I thought I told you no more yuppies."

"Logan," she said, but Charles could see he'd hit his stride, because he kept right on going. He didn't even have it in him to be offended by _no more yuppies_ , because, well, compared to this man he could hardly argue.

"I told you once, Jean, if I've told you a million times, there's no way in hell I'm backing down unless he gives me the boot. This is Creed and _Sons_ , emphasis on the plural, and if he wants to run it all by himself--"

"Logan, Mr. Xavier called last week about today's sale, specifically the late Mr. Danvers's library. He owns a bookstore in the Capitol district." Jean was adamant in steering the conversation her way. Charles had to admire that kind of backbone (though he imagined without it she wouldn't have lasted a day working with this man) and liked her a little more for making it sound like Bindings was in Albany proper instead of a tiny, cheesy suburb.

"Oh," Logan replied, cutting Charles another skeptical look. "A bookworm."

Charles grinned. "I've been called worse, and less accurately. Nice to meet you, Mr. Creed." He offered his hand.

Logan looked down at his hand, unimpressed, then back up at his face. He took the cigar from behind his ear and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "It's just Logan. And besides, the ego-tripping lunatic you actually made this appointment with is back there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Have fun." And he brushed between Charles and Jean without another word.

Jean sighed, pasting on a bright smile. "Well, no one's ever accused him of being boring." She gestured ahead. "I promise Victor Creed is far less--"

She paused, searching for a word, and Charles supplied, "Mad?" That got him a laugh, at least, and they proceeded into the room.

Victor Creed was, in fact, less mad than his brother, or at least seemed so on the outside. When they entered the study they saw him sitting behind a gigantic mahogany desk, looking through a stack of papers. He looked up as Jean shut the door behind them, getting to his feet. He was just as wide as his brother but almost a foot taller, trying harder to look professional, though the shirt and tie didn't sit any easier on him than Charles imagined they would on Logan. He looked menacing-- like a tiger in a sport jacket. 

"Mr. Xavier," Creed said, coming around to shake Charles's hand. "I'm sorry about my brother, he can be a bit... unstable." His smile was, if possible, more unsettling than his regular expression. "Thank you so much for coming out here, we appreciate the business."

"I appreciate the opportunity," Charles said honestly, quelling the fleeting thought that he had made a mistake in coming here. "My shop is small, and we're struggling. Having advance access to sales like this is critical for us, so, I'm very grateful you agreed."

Creed smiled again. "Let's have a look at the merchandise, shall we?" There was a narrow door that led into the next room, and Charles followed the big man through it. Inside, the walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, with ladders reaching up and small brass tags on each shelf-- classifications, Charles presumed. There were ten rows on each bookshelf, and at least twenty shelves, more like thirty.

 _This is a treasure,_ he thought, relief and excitement spreading through him, eradicating his earlier worry. _Thank God._ He turned to Creed with a grin. "By all means," he said, "show me around."

\---

Two hours later Charles's good mood had been thoroughly trounced. Creed was less crazy than his brother, but he was a hardass, and despite having given Charles the appointment he asked for, he put a higher price on some of his specimens than Charles thought was fair. It had been a struggle, but he'd bought what he could on Bindings' budget and spent his own money on the rest. He wasn't happy doing business with a man who was clearly only interested in what would benefit himself, but at least he knew he could bring good news back to the shop.

"Have a good night, Mr. Xavier," said Jean as he shrugged into his coat. She came up and shook his hand again, gave him a warm smile with sympathy in it. He bid her farewell with a smile; he turned away, but her voice called him back. "I hope this won't be the last we see of you."

"I hope so too," he said. He didn't know yet how much he meant it. He opened the door and went out, greeted by Logan standing still as stone on the walk in front of him. "Have a good night," Charles said as he passed. Logan said nothing, but his eyes slanted towards Charles as he went by, which Charles took for as much of a reply as he was likely to get. 

He got back into the car and sat for a moment letting it warm up, resisting the urge to drop his forehead to rest on the steering wheel. _Worth it,_ he told himself. _This is all going to be worth it._ When the vents began blowing hot air at last, he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. As he backed out, the front door of the big old house opened and Jean leaned out. He saw Logan Creed turn to look at her, then throw the end of his cigar into the snow and follow her back inside. "Weird people," Charles muttered to himself, and pulled away already thinking of his hotel room, and the bed awaiting him in it.

On the drive back, he fished out his phone and called Raven. "Hey!" she said when she picked up, sounding a little worn. "How are you?"

"Knackered as hell," he said honestly. "Wishing I was home instead of here. Met some interesting people though." He told her about the Creed brothers and his strange afternoon with them. 

"They sound like what would happen if you sent Hank and Sean to live in the woods for a few years," she replied, sounding half bemused, half annoyed.

"Everything alright there?" he asked, meaning with her and Hank, not Hank and Sean. 

"Of course," she said in the defensive tone that meant _Not really, but I don't want you to ask me about it_. 

"I'm going back to my hotel and going to sleep," he announced by way of changing the subject. It didn't matter that it was barely six o'clock; he was tired enough that he was fairly sure he'd sleep until morning no matter when he lay down.

"Is Erik going to call you to say goodnight?" she replied, layering more than the usual amount of suggestion into _say goodnight_.

Charles grinned. "Well I hadn't thought so, but now that you suggested it..."

"Don't say I never did anything for you," Raven snarked back. 

"As if I'd spread such lies," he laughed. 

"Well, I'm glad you had a decent day. Even if you did spend half of it with an extortionist lunatic with a rabid lumberjack for a brother."

"Seriously, Raven, is everything alright?" he said then, because he was her big brother and he couldn't not prod at things she tried to steer him away from. "I'm not trying to meddle if you don't want me to, but if something's wrong--"

"No, nothing's wrong," she said, resignation clear in her voice. "I'm just being a stupid girl." _About Hank_ went unspoken. Not for the first time, Charles despaired of ever understanding Raven's relationship to romance. For most of their teenage years she'd vacillated between stints of juggling as many dates as possible (generally with whoever she thought would shock their mother and stepfather the most) and periods of manic focus on one activity or class or project to the exclusion of everything else. She plainly didn't know what she wanted, and trying to talk to her about it was a fast way to end up pushed into the pool or with a glass of milk dumped over your head, as Charles could attest from a few memorably disastrous attempts.

So he played it light, forcing a smile to cover his worry. "Well, I can't deny the girl part, but stupid is a bit overstating it, don't you think?"

"Don't butter me up," she retorted, and he could hear her rolling her eyes. "I'm being a girl whose sizeable intelligence is being overruled by her unstable emotions."

"That's a bit better," Charles said, his smile a bit more genuine. _She might take comfort in knowing she's not entirely alone in that boat,_ he thought, remembering his musings on the train that morning. But no; it wasn't at all the same thing. Raven had known Hank for years, and the complicated nature of their relationship had layers to which a friendship of not-quite-six months could scarcely compare. _The euphoria will dissipate in time,_ Charles told himself. _There is an end in sight, or at least a plateau._ This he knew for a certainty, having witnessed it in his own past without exception. Once the sex stopped being such a novelty, the rest of the bits that made up a romantic or sexual entanglement crept in. Charles thought himself lucky that Erik would likely be gone back to New York before that occurred.

"Anyway," he went on, "I won't make you talk about it. I'll save that for when I'm back home and can ply you with beer and digestives. Just... you _can_ talk to me, you know. Just because I've been having a mild sexual panic attack for the past six months--" He stopped when she started laughing.

"I know I can," she said, and the softness in her tone made Charles believe it. "And believe me, when I have something to say, you're the first one I'll say it to. But I have to go now, Alex and Sean are demanding I get the boy from I Heart Pizza to send us another free pie."

Charles grinned. "Better you than me."

"Yeah, you're not his type," Raven laughed. "Talk to you tomorrow." She was still laughing when she hung up the phone.

Finally back in his hotel room, Charles took a shower and turned on the TV, surfed the channels and then turned it off again. Despite his joking with Raven, he wasn't planning on calling Erik. He would have liked to talk to him, but was too worn out from his day to trust himself. He felt restless, nervous, and more unsettled for not knowing why he felt that way-- not a good recipe for a casual conversation with your casual person-you'd-had-sex-with-four-times-not-that-he-was-counting. 

Charles knew he had the bad habit of thinking himself into a corner, of letting his brain run through a subject again and again like a hamster on a wheel. It often led to misunderstandings (usually on his part) but it was the only way he had ever found to successfully relate to people. He could read most people well enough, their mannerisms and habits and what made them tick, but emotional understanding had always been a bit beyond his grasp. It was what made him so bad at romance-- or so he'd been told. Sex was easy, and he'd never had a problem finding it when he needed it. But when it came to the long term, as his conversation with Raven had reminded him, he didn't have the greatest track record. Charles knew that something about him as a boyfriend was lacking, but no one had ever told him exactly what it was.

"Guess it's lucky for me Erik's not my boyfriend," he muttered, sliding down in the bed and tucked his hands behind his head. The best thing to do right then was sleep, he knew, or he would regret it in the morning. He glanced at his phone once before shaking his head-- _You can go one day without talking to him,_ he scolded-- and turning off the light.

\---

On the train home to Albany on Friday, Charles sat next to the window with a box of books on the seat beside him. He knew it was both paranoid and slightly crazy, but they were the most valuable of his purchases and he had an irrational fear of letting them out of his sight. He was eager to be back home. There was one week left until Christmas.

He had Sherlock Holmes open in front of him again, reading it with a bit more attention than he had been on Wednesday, though that might have been because he'd finally gotten past _The Musgrave Ritual_. He was just getting to the start of the action in _The Yellow Face_ when his phone rang in his pocket. 

He fished it out and thumbed the green button on the fourth ring. "Charles Xavier," he said softly into it. 

"Mr. Xavier, hi, it's Jean Grey from Creed and Sons," came the warm voice over the phone. 

"Ms. Grey, hello," he replied, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat, concern humming vaguely in his mind. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I know I said this on Wednesday, but I just wanted to call and say thank you," she said, something in her tone making Charles guess this was not the same courtesy call she made to most of the Creed brothers' customers. "It was really a pleasure to meet you, to do business with you. I know we're a bit-- unorthodox here at Creed and Sons," she said, her self-deprecating chuckle sounding slightly forced, "but we appreciate your business nonetheless."

Unexpectedly, Charles found himself smiling. "Thank you for saying so, Ms. Grey. It was a pleasure for me as well." _To meet you, anyway,_ he thought. "And if you're ever in the Capitol district, I hope you'll stop by Bindings to say hello." 

She promised him she would do just that. After they said their goodbyes and hung up, Charles sat for a moment in thought. Here was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out; the intersection of the cutthroat Victor Creed, his hot-headed brother and their obviously overqualified assistant. Charles wasn't fooling himself-- he wasn't the great detective of Baker Street, he couldn't look at people and read their histories on their bodies, or their emotions on their faces. But people interested him, and the more complicated they were, the more likely he was to find himself trying to pick them apart.

He dropped that train of thought when his phone rang for the second time. He dug it out of his pocket and grinned, a betraying flush of warmth in his stomach, to see Erik's name on the screen. Charles accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear. "Good morning." His voice had gone low and pleased; belatedly he wished he had modulated his tone better, but dissembling wasn't exactly his strong suit.

"Good morning to you too," Erik replied. "How's the train?" There was a slow languor to his words that made Charles wonder if he was tired or just hadn't gotten out of bed yet; a little thrill went through him at the thought.

"Fine," Charles said. He turned, almost without thinking about it, half curling into the seat with one knee drawn up, shutting the rest of the train out of his awareness. "How's your morning?"

"Late," Erik admitted. "I don't have to go into the shop til later, and the nanny saw the children off to school, so."

"Don't even speak to me," Charles laughed. "I was up at seven." Meanwhile he was thinking to himself, _Nanny?_ Even now, with so much more open between them, Erik guarded the details of his personal life jealously; when he let something slip, Charles hoarded it like a magpie. 

"Mm," Erik agreed. "Unfortunate. My morning off would be much more fun with company."

"You're a wretched tease," Charles said honestly. "I won't be back for two hours yet. You couldn't have waited to have a lie-in til tomorrow?"

Erik laughed, low and throaty; there was a rustling sound as he shifted in the bed. "I have a schedule, Charles. Much as I'd enjoy a bit more freedom in my days, it's not exactly an option." He paused, as if realizing Charles might take it as a dig at his frequent travels (he hadn't taken it that way, though he'd recognized it as a possibility) and added, "As I know you have intimate experience with yourself."

"True enough," Charles sighed. Quickly he debated saying more, the inner voice warning him against attachment persisting in the back of his head, but he went on. "Well, I'm working late tonight, and I've got to go into the shop early. I probably get a break sometime mid-day tomorrow, though." That sounded nonchalant enough, he supposed. 

"Lunch, then?" Erik sounded bemused.

"And by lunch you mean actual lunch? Or..." Charles let the suggestion trail off. He knew better than to think he'd actually have time for anything of the sort, not on the Saturday before Christmas, but defiantly decided realism could wait until tomorrow. Now it was pleasant just to think of the shrinking number of hours between now and when he would see Erik again.

"I think you'll find me amenable to either definition of the word," Erik said, and this time Charles knew they were both grinning.

\---

When the train let Charles off in Albany he immediately got a cab to the shop. He was unsurprised to find all of downtown Barnes busy with shoppers, Bindings full of its fair share of them. Raven was behind the till, on the phone and directing a customer to a section while ringing another one up. Armando was up on the ladder taking something down from the high shelf in Nonfiction, and Alex was weaving in and out of the Biography/History/Geography sections like he was skiing a slalom course.

"Oh thank god," Sean gasped, running past with his hair all standing on end. "I have to pee so bad, dude, you don't even know," he said over his shoulder, and ran off presumably to find the bathroom.

"Thanks for that," Charles said wryly, shifting past him and dragging his suitcase down the hall to the office. He emerged a minute later girded for battle with the hordes of rampaging customers, and was almost immediately swept away by an ever-growing line of people demanding his time and attention. It was over half an hour before he had a moment to spare to say hello to Raven; he opened the door to the storage closet to grab a roll of receipt tape and found her standing inside it, shoving a cold burrito into her mouth.

"Hi," he said, eyebrows up, grinning. It was arrestingly normal, in the midst of what felt like an eternity of crazy, to see her slouched against the shelves eating. Also, she had a smudge of refried bean on her cheek, which he felt it was his brotherly duty to laugh at.

"Mmffff," she said, gesturing with the burrito and rolling her eyes. She chewed and swallowed, and shook her head, looking rueful. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If this is what passes for a lunch break around here, I'm gonna make the most of it. How was the rest of your trip?"

"Fine," he said. "Tell you about it later. What do you want for dinner?"

"If it's food, I'll probably eat it," she said, grabbing the cherry Coke off the shelf beside her head and swigging from it. "Kay. See you back out there."

When 9:00 hit, they were almost too tired to talk. Raven counted the drawers and made up the deposit, while Charles ran around cleaning up as best he could. "I might just have to finish this in the morning," he said, cracking a giant yawn as he came up to the counter with a tall pile of misplaced books. "Right now I'm fairly sure if I try to read any more words I'll go cross-eyed and pass out." 

"Three more minutes and I'll be done here," Raven mumbled, and he watched her jaw work as she suppressed a yawn of her own.

Charles reached for the phone and dialed the Italian place around the corner from memory. "Hi, Matt, it's Charles at Bindings. What's your dinner special tonight? Okay, I'll have two, to go, extra garlic bread, extra sauce. Be there in ten minutes, cheers." He put the phone back in its dock and started down the hall. "I'll get your coat," he called over his shoulder. 

He re-emerged towing his suitcase with Raven's coat over his arm. "You're awesome," she said, shrugging it on. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Amen," Charles agreed. 

"You know it's been a really rough day when you're too tired to drink," Raven went on as she locked the shop door behind them. "It's your job to make sure I don't fall asleep in my pasta."

"Think I can handle that," Charles said, and let her tuck her arm through his as they walked. In short order they'd reached the restaurant, where Raven held the door for Charles and his suitcase. Inside it was blessedly warm. The kid behind the counter gave them a bored smile. "Pickup for Charles," said Charles, fishing out his wallet. There were people at a few of the tables, but it was pretty quiet over the murmur of the TV in the corner. 

The kid gave Charles the bag and was just finishing ringing him up when the door behind them opened, a gust of cold air slicing through the warmth. Charles signed the slip that the kid passed him, and turned at the sound of Raven chuckling. Erik was standing behind them, the surprise on his face morphing into chagrin as Raven teased, "Well, what a coincidence. Charles, you never told me you liked them tall, dark and stalkerish."

"What can I say," Erik replied, a haughty lift to his chin. "I'm a man of many talents." Charles fought not to blush; difficult, as the sight of Erik had been enough to speed up his pulse and make his fingertips tingle. "Long day?" Erik added, eyes flicking from Raven to Charles and narrowing; Charles imagined his fatigue showed on his face.

"You can say that again," Raven said before Charles could reply. "You too?"

Erik nodded. "The only reason I even came here is because my children stop speaking to me if I don't take care of myself," he said, his smile self-deprecating. 

"Spaghetti is important," Raven agreed. "You should come over and have some with us sometime. Not tonight, obviously," she said lightly, canting her head sideways at Charles while he fought not to glare at her. "But next week. Monday, maybe?" Charles gave up on being a part of the conversation and attempted just to look attentive.

Erik glanced from Raven to Charles and back, as if trying to assess her level of seriousness; Charles warred between wondering if Erik thought he'd put her up to this, and feeling quietly impressed that she'd done it so smoothly. Erik's mouth curled up at the corners and he shrugged. "Why not? If you're planning to interrogate me, we might as well do it over dinner."

Raven's smile was deceptively sweet. "My thoughts exactly. Monday, then? Seven o'clock?"

Erik grinned back, with a lot of teeth. "See you then." He smirked at Charles, who grinned unrepentantly and mouthed _See you tomorrow_ as he let himself be herded out the door.

Out on the street he smacked Raven lightly on the shoulder. "That was brazen of you," he said. Erik obviously hadn't thought anything of it, but Charles and his proper British manners were all too aware of the implications. _Dinner with the family. God. That's not a loaded invitation or anything..._

She glanced sidelong at him, dubious. "Are you mad that I did it?"

Charles shrugged, then grinned a little. "No," he said, "not really. Not unless you actually plan to interrogate him over dinner, in which case, please don't."

Raven shook her head. "Nah." She faced forward, eyes on the ground to avoid slipping on the snow, but Charles could see in his peripheral vision that her expression was soft and fond. "I just-- you obviously like him a lot, so. I kinda want to get to know him, at least a little bit."

Charles smiled, a warm feeling curling up in his stomach at the admission, and pulled her arm through his again. "Best sister ever," he told her, kissing the top of her head. "Now let's stop talking and walk faster. I'm starting to lose feeling in my nose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, two in one week! Trying to push through to the new stuff sooner rather than later, though I can't promise another update this soon. This chapter title from the National (and last chapter from Kimbra, since I think I forgot to say).


	9. the splinter in my fingertips (who could do without you?)

The next morning Charles's alarm went off at six o'clock. "Nnnnngh," he said, slapping it into silence. He pried his eyes open, levered himself upright, dragged his fingers through his unruly hair. He felt hung over-- _worse_ than hung over, because the feeling came from sleep deprivation, not alcohol. Somehow the malaise was more of an insult when he knew he hadn't done anything to deserve it.

He got up and stumbled to the kitchen to put the coffee on. He'd had the presence of mind to set it up the night before, so all he had to do was press the button to start it burbling. He leaned against the counter, blinking blearily out the window while the kitchen filled with the warm, spicy scent of dark roast. It was the Saturday before Christmas; it had snowed again in the night, and the street below sparkled prettily in the sun. Looking out at the still-silent streets, Charles could almost believe he'd woken to an empty world, a fairy-tale place where everyone was sleeping except him. Then a beat-up old car drove past, creasing the snowy street with muddy lines, disturbing the quiet with a brief flare of Katy Perry coming from its radio. _And this is why we can't have nice things,_ Charles thought, but he was smiling a little in spite of it.

He was in the shop by seven o'clock along with a bleary-eyed Hank, who looked like he might have slept in his clothes. Charles was an old hand at this; he'd come prepared with a box of coffee in one hand and a case of Red Bull in the other. He poured Hank a cup of the former, passed it to him with a bracing clap on the shoulder, and went to unlock the door with a smile painted on his face. 

There were already a handful of people waiting outside, blowing on their hands or nursing steaming cups between their hands. "Morning," Charles said as he ushered them in. Some of them greeted him back, others already intent on their purchases just nodded in response. He poured himself another cup of coffee and went to stand with Hank behind the register, leaning his forearms on the counter while Hank stared at the computer screen, practically cross-eyed. 

"Judging by your pallor and lethargy, I'm guessing your last final's turned in?" he asked, grinning at Hank's visible jolt out of the daydream he'd been in.

"Last night," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose, nodding. "Emailed it in around one." 

"Must be a relief," Charles said with sympathy. He remembered his own grad school days with far more clarity than he ought, given the percentage of those days he'd spent either drunk or hung over. The remainder that had actually been spent on studying had earned him a reputation much like the one he suspected Hank of possessing: a born scientist with a brilliant mind and a world of possibilities open to him once he'd earned his degree. He hoped Hank would do more with those possibilities than he'd done with his, but--

"Come on, he's top of the class already, it's not like the prof's going to do anything but cream himself while he figures out how many plus signs it's appropriate to put after an A." This from Raven, who edged into the tiny space behind the till with a coffee roll in one hand and a small silo sporting a Starbucks logo in the other. "Where's the phone?"

"It was a hard paper," Hank protested. "I told you already, Raven, I should've done a few more experiments before coming to some of the conclusions I did, and he'd be right to tell me I needed more data--"

"You're a five-star brain trying to fit in at a two-star school," Raven said, her eyes hot and narrow on Hank's face as she straightened up. "Don't tell me you're not ten times smarter than everyone else in that class, and twice as smart as the professor, because modesty's not a good look on you."

Hank's face blotched with red as he drew himself up, his whole posture turning from exhausted to obstinate in the span of a breath. "Forgive me for setting the bar so low," he said curtly, getting to his feet. "Not all of us have the luxury of choice, Raven. Which I'm pretty sure you knew already. But thanks for the reminder." A quick sidestep put Hank between Charles and Raven, his back to Raven's stung and startled expression. "I'm going to see if anyone needs help out there," he murmured, not meeting Charles's eyes as he slunk away.

Charles met Raven's eyes and drew a breath, but before he could say anything, she shook her head and muttered, "I know, I'm a shit, you don't have to say it."

"I wasn't going to say it," Charles said gently. He wanted to reach out and squeeze her shoulder, but wasn't sure the gesture would be welcome, so kept it to himself. "You were unkind, maybe, but not wrong." He tilted his head a fraction to keep eye contact as she huffed and looked down. "You care for him." It was less of a question than it might've been a few weeks before. "You want to see him getting the recognition he deserves-- a sentiment I think we all share."

She sighed, settling onto the stool Hank had vacated, setting her coffee down and taking a bite of her monstrous pastry. "I'll find a way to apologize. I'll embarrass myself, which will embarrass him, and he'll forgive me."

"He cares for you too, you know," Charles said. "He wouldn't be hurt by what you'd said if he didn't value your opinion."

The look Raven turned on him was equal parts hopeful and rueful. "Don't you start dispensing relationship advice now just because you've got your problem all sewn up," she murmured, a smile teasing one corner of her mouth. 

"That's not even remotely the case," Charles laughed, "but I know when my fraternal meddling isn't wanted."

"Really? God, that's progress." Raven jerked her head toward the office. "Go on, get out of my hair, I've got work to do, and I think the back doorbell just rang." 

Realizing she was right, Charles forebore having the last word and practically skipped to answer it. "Good morning!" he said as he burst through the back door, rather more chipper than was probably warranted. He signed the scanner barely looking at it, and hefted one of the four boxes with his name on it into the office. 

"Personal shipment?" the FedEx guy asked, grinning. 

"Sort of," Charles said. "Just something I've been looking forward to." He carefully slit the tape on the first box (the other man let himself out; Charles barely noticed) and opened it with a contented hum. 

"I'd say you look as happy as a kid at Christmas, but it seems too cliche," Armando said as he slipped into the office a little while later, edging around the boxes toward the closet. "These the spoils of your trip?"

Charles nodded, grinning as he lifted a few of the books carefully out of the box. They were each wrapped in bubble wrap and then slid into their own plastic bag; whatever else Creed may have been, he was careful with his wares. "Look at this," he said, turning to show Armando the spine of one. "First edition of _Gone with the Wind_ , signed by Clark Gable."

Armando whistled, his eyebrows shooting way up. "I don't think I want to know how much that one will go for," he said, touching the plastic almost reverently.

"Or what I paid for it," Charles replied with an ironic eyebrow. Armando winced and nodded. "Still, it's quite a haul here. Should see us through the next couple of months very nicely."

"Oh, so I shouldn't bother with signing up for that bartending class after all?" he quipped back. He was grinning, but Charles's answering smile felt lame at best. Armando, reading him correctly clapped Charles on the shoulder and gave him that honest searching look that meant Charles should stop taking everything so seriously. "It was a joke, man," he said easily. "Lighten up. It's like, the most wonderful time of the year, or something, right?" Charles laughed, as he knew he was supposed to, and followed Armando back out onto the floor determined not to let anything put a damper on his morning. 

Unfortunately, the best laid plans of mice and bookshop owners go oft awry. Spanning the next two hours, Charles was subjected to more than one dressing-down at the hands of customers irate that they had run out of the Sarah Palin biography or insisting that they needed the version of Lord of the Rings without the movie actors on the front (though Charles could hardly fault them for that one). It was a relief when Alex came in and he could flee in the direction of lunch-- and Erik.

Flopping down in the chair behind the desk, Charles ran his hands through his hair and got out his phone from the drawer. He dialed Erik's number. "I hope you're ready for lunch," he said. 

"As it happens, I am," Erik said back. Charles wished he could stop himself smiling, but he could tell Erik was as well, and that had been hard-won; when he'd first met Erik he'd thought he would never see him smile, let alone reach a point where he could get him to do it almost on command. He felt he had a right to be proud of it.

"Where do you want to meet?" Selfishly, he hoped it was somewhere close; he didn't want to spend too much of their precious hour walking. 

"I thought I'd come pick you up," Erik said, as the door to the office swung open to reveal him standing outside, looking smug. Charles's stomach dipped funnily and he melted a little, and fought to keep it from showing on his face; he was afraid the result left him looking daft, but he could hardly help it. 

"You've got to stop doing that," he said, dropping the phone back in the drawer and turning to face the door. Behind Erik, he could see Raven, Sean and Hank peeking around the corner and down the hallway. Charles raised an eyebrow at them and they vanished, though he was sure they'd be back a second later. 

"What," Erik replied, "surprising you?" He raised an eyebrow. "But it's so easy." 

"Don't be mean, it's not at all attractive," Charles lied in an undertone, his heart thudding faster at the satisfaction in Erik's tone. He got up and lifted his coat off the back of the chair, looping his scarf around his neck. Erik came around the desk and for a second Charles panicked, afraid he was about to kiss him with the door still open. But Erik leaned past him, looking at the computer screen, then let out a sharp bark of a laugh. 

"What--" Charles twisted around, trying not to trip over the chair, and immediately flushed hot as an oven as he realized Erik had seen the post-it, months old by now, still stuck to the side of the screen. _1\. Be the boss man. 2. Stop flirting with the competition._

"How's that working out for you, Charles?" Erik asked, soft and suggestive right in his ear.

"Like a house on fire," Charles said breezily, hiding the little shiver that ran through him as he slipped away to the back door, ignoring his still-flaming face. "Shall we?"

He let Erik out first, then leaned over to within sight of the hallway. Raven, Sean and Hank ducked out of sight again, but not quickly enough. Charles made his exit, smothering a grin into his scarf.

\---

"Chewing on a cigar?" Erik repeated, bemused. 

"Yes. And I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I've been to a fair few of these sales now and almost all the sellers wear suits, or at least an Oxford and tie. I've never seen anyone in jeans and flannel," Charles laughed. He was feeling much more at ease now that he'd eaten something, though the tight race of excitement under his skin had yet to dissipate. Every time he looked up and found Erik looking back at him, it sent a little jolt through him. He hoped it didn't show on his face.

"Well, I hate to inform you, Charles, but you do sound like a snob," said Erik, a slight smile quirking his mouth. "Though I would venture a guess it's not the first time someone's told you that."

"Only every day of my life from age nine or so until I left for university," Charles said, grinning. "Raven's made it something of a life's mission to take me down a peg or five."

Erik's eyebrows furrowed. "She's not nine years younger than you," he said, wary.

"No, only five. My parents weren't able to have more after me, so they adopted her when she was barely six months old." His smile bordered on sappy, but it was hard to keep in. "We were inseparable as children. Things changed a bit when Dad died and Mum remarried, but." He swallowed any inclination to elaborate about the Markos-- this was meant to be an enjoyable lunch break, he reminded himself. "We've always been close. It sounds soppy, but I'm proud to say she's my best friend." 

"That's-- very sweet," Erik said, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, he sounded almost wistful. "You're very lucky to have her. Even if she is a conversational sniper. Did you know she was going to do that last night, by the way? Not that I object to eating pasta in your company, or hers, but if you wanted to invite me over..." 

Charles snorted an undignified laugh. "A conversational sniper, I like that. And no, I assure you, she never shares any of her intentions with me, especially when they pertain to my personal life. Though she must like you," he went on, grinning. "Most of the time she tries to run strangers off the proverbial property." 'Strangers' here meaning 'Anyone Charles has displayed the slightest amount of romantic interest in'. 

"I like to be the exception rather than the rule," Erik said, grinning back. 

_You're doing a fine job of it,_ Charles thought. That had been such a definitive statement that it had left him at a loss for where to direct the conversation next. He supposed he might as well take the opportunity of being alone with Erik in a place they were forced to keep their clothes on to find out more about him. "Tell me about your children," he said. He was very curious about them, but he hardly thought _Where did they come from?_ was an appropriate question.

Erik's face went still, and he seemed to buy himself a moment to think by sipping at his water. "Well," he said, "they're twins, their names are Wanda and Pietro, they're nine years old, and smarter than anyone I know. Yourself included," he added, his smile a little tight. Something had shuttered in his face, though his expression had barely changed. The warmth in his eyes had dimmed, and Charles, though a bit confused by the abruptness, could take a hint. 

He picked up the thread of banter Erik had let hang, and said, "And here I thought I'd made a good impression. Less intelligent than a nine-year-old-- suppose I should go burn my diplomas for all the good they're doing me." 

"Oh I'm sure there's no need for that," Erik countered. "No reason not to let the entire world know you spent the GDP of Belgium on a decade of listening to withered old WASPs droning on about Shakespeare."

Charles snickered. "Genetics and psychology, actually, but close enough." 

"And you did say diplomas, plural? Should I be calling you Doctor Xavier?" 

"Not if you want me to respond," he said. "Same goes for Professor..." He met Erik's eyes; his expression was curious and wry, but Charles knew he wanted the real answer, and finished his trailing sentence. "...though both are, technically, accurate."

"Duly noted." Erik paused, a calculated silence that would have been hesitation on anyone less decisive. "Don't feel you have to answer this, because I'm sure you're sick of the question, but... why _aren't_ you teaching?" Erik leaned forward with his elbows on the table, the stillness gone from his eyes; Charles was relieved enough that he didn't even care that this wasn't his favorite topic of conversation.

Still, he weighed his words carefully before answering. "If I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the ivory tower, I could, yes. But I've never relished the idea of knowledge for knowledge's sake, and I was never quite convinced that lab research did as much good as the lab researchers of my acquaintance swear it does." He hoped he wasn't imagining the flicker of satisfaction he thought he saw in Erik's eyes. 

"Anyway," he went on, "it upset my mother enough to see me go into science instead of business; I'm sure you can imagine how much more enraged she was when I announced I was going into _trade_." He waggled his eyebrows for effect, and when Erik laughed, he felt the last little knot of tension inside him relax even as his mind whirred in counterpoint to their conversation, thinking, wondering.

 _Why doesn't he want to talk about his kids?_ he thought. _Most people with kids can't wait to talk about them..._ But it wasn't as if he'd told his own full story in response to Erik's questioning. More than anything, this hour had served to highlight to Charles that he knew even less about Erik than he'd thought-- and to confirm that he was unlikely to know more unless Erik decided he wanted him to.

\---

They were almost at the back door of Bindings before Charles realized Erik should have split off to go back to Brand- new; a few blocks ago. "Walking me home?" he teased. "How chivalrous."

"If you slip on the ice and end up in the hospital, I'll be forced to have pasta with Raven alone on Monday, and I doubt that's something you're endorsing at this moment," Erik replied, his face as impassive as ever. 

"True," Charles admitted. He didn't want Erik and Raven alone in a room together for longer than it took him to sneeze, let alone have an entire meal. They stopped outside the back door of Bindings and Charles looked at Erik, grinning. "I think we should congratulate ourselves," he said. 

"For?" Erik asked, one eyebrow going up.

"For managing to spend almost an hour in each other's company without snogging each other senseless," he said. "It's more than we've managed in a week-- I think that deserves some congratulations."

"Not at all," Erik said, shaking his head, stepping in closer. 

Charles felt his heartbeat rocket up a few paces, his mouth going dry. "Oh?" he asked, his vocabulary abruptly deserting him as Erik came nearer still. He could feel his brain giving up control, the addicted animal part of him waking up to remind him how long he'd gone without this, and how stupid it was that he was still going without.

"I think that's a record that deserves to be broken," said Erik, his breath a warm little caress against Charles's cheek. 

Instead of words, Charles answered him by grabbing a handful of his scarf and pulling him in, kissing the grin off his face while Erik braced one hand on the door, the other (bare, when did he get his glove off) slipping inside the open collar of his jacket. His eyes fell shut as Erik's lips caressed his own, a soft little noise of encouragement exhaling through his nose when Erik's fingers wormed under his scarf, curling warm against his neck. It was freezing out, and the wind whipped down the alley, tearing at their clothes, but Charles barely felt it. Erik's mouth was hot and possessive, familiar, and he smelled fantastic. He took his time with Charles, kissed him like they had nowhere more pressing to be, and Charles was blissfully content to lose himself in this honey-slow exchange, the feeling of kissing without intent, with no purpose other than the pleasure of it, of taste and touch and the sweet hum of desire resonating back and forth between them.

Charles had no idea how long they'd been standing there when he broke away, winded and wide-eyed, the sight of Erik looking just as disheveled sending a jolt of lust through him. He swallowed the words that threatened to spill out, _Come back to mine,_ the greedy part of him that wanted to peel Erik out of his clothes and put his mouth on every inch of that lean and glorious body. 

"No more," he warned, sounding firmer than he felt, "or I'll be tempted to put my office to nefarious use, which is hardly a safe or wise idea."

Erik smirked. "Safe?"

Charles nodded seriously. "There's no lock on the door." He didn't care. His brain kept supplying him with images of what he wanted Erik to do to him, and it wasn't helping his resolve.

Erik's smirk deepened. "Sounds like fun."

Charles reddened even more, and groped behind him for the doorknob. "Get out of here," he laughed. _Don't tempt me any more than you already are._ He got the door open and started to back through it, hoping to escape before Erik's smirk stripped him of his last facade of self-control. "See you Monday," he said firmly, though he was still smiling.

"Yes, you will," Erik said, flashing his smirk again before turning to go back to his own store.

Charles shut the door and started to shed his outer layers. It was only when he'd hung his coat up that he turned and saw Alex sitting in the chair, a burrito half-eaten on the desk beside him. He was facing the door; it looked like he'd been sitting that way for a while. Watching through the window. Watching Charles and Erik.

"Hi," Charles said, hoping it came out nonchalant, knowing it probably didn't.

Alex stood up. He was very still, stiller than Charles had ever seen him. "Now's not the time," he said, terse and short. His voice was iron-hard, but Charles could tell he was barely holding back a tremble. "But you got some 'splainin' to do, Charles. To me, and to everyone else."

Then he picked up his burrito, edged past Charles, and left the office without another word.

\---

Paranoid, and not wanting to do anything until he'd driven himself mad with overthinking first, Charles didn't say try to have his say with Alex before he left the shop for the day. He didn't say much of anything to anyone, actually, beyond casually professional directives and requests. He fled the shop as soon as he could, feeling like a coward, but not ashamed of it enough to stop himself.

He was home and in his pajamas, a can of soup heating on the stove, when he realized he was still thinking about it, about Alex, and how to handle the situation. Namely, he had no idea what to say or how to approach it. He didn't want his friend upset with him, but he also wasn't too thrilled with the idea of Alex in a snit at work the week before Christmas. It was an awkward situation he'd never encountered before-- namely, he realized, because he'd never had enough of a social life to need to worry that any part of it might affect things at the shop. 

By the time he was settled on the sofa, halfway through his dinner and a glass of wine, he was no closer to puzzling out the best way to broach the subject. He thought of calling Moira for advice, but he didn't want to chance another lecture on the debatable wisdom of his affair with Erik. Which then made him feel like an idiot for not thinking of talking to Erik first. Pushing the plate aside, he grabbed his phone and started typing.

 _Have a question for you, purely of a professional nature. Got a minute to talk?_ he sent. He knew it was likely Erik was still at his shop, or at home and not wanting to be disturbed, but it wasn't even ten minutes before his phone rang.

"It wasn't urgent," he said, as he put the phone to his ear.

"Maybe not, but my desire to escape the dubious joys of Ed, Edd and Eddy certainly is," Erik said. "What is it?"

Suddenly awkward, Charles took a breath and held it while he tried to find the politest way to say this. "My employees are by and large under the impression you mean to put us out of business, and may resent you a bit for it. And one of them happened to catch us in the act of despoiling the back door this afternoon."

There was a brief silence, then Erik prompted, "And?"

Charles shrugged helplessly. "And I don't know what to say to him. He didn't say much, but I gather he's quite put out that I've been snogging you and didn't see fit to tell anyone about it. It just won't do much for morale in the store if half my employees are annoyed with me for-- well, for sleeping with the enemy." It sounded melodramatic, and Charles was already regretting bringing it up. 

(This was the sort of thing he’d known he would be prey to; he felt comfortable with Erik, so he wanted to talk to him about things, especially potentially problematic situations like this. But he had to be wary of relying on Erik more than he should-- what he could ask a colleague, it might not be wise to ask a lover, especially not one whose tenure in Charles's life had an expiration date. _Should’ve called Moira instead, lecture be damned,_ he thought, shaking his head at himself.)

Erik sounded bemused, if puzzled. "I think you're worrying more than you should," he said. "Is it really that important?"

"I know it sounds foolish, but it is to Alex," Charles said. "And he's not just an employee, he's a friend, so it's important to me as well." It _did_ sound silly. And the worst of it was, it was half Charles’s own fault. He’d taken part in hating Erik’s existence before he’d gotten to know the man, and while everyone at Bindings had known about his crush, he hadn’t exactly stood up and said _please stop referring to Erik as Darth Vader when you think I’m not listening._ And the look on Alex’s face... 

"I don't think you've got much to worry about," Erik said, his shrug almost audible. "It’s your life. Haven't you got enough on your plate without worrying about one employee's overreaction?"

Charles was surprised at the sharp twist in his stomach, the pained wince that crossed his face. Erik was right; his personal life wasn't exactly his employees' business. But everyone at Bindings was far more than just an employee to Charles. How could he explain to Erik, who didn't know them-- how could he make him understand Alex's singleminded desire to do right by his brother, the way Hank would ask Charles about Oxford and think he was hiding the longing in it, how Sean's laconic laziness hid a fierce desire to prove himself to the family that had shut him out. 

In each of them, Charles saw a little piece of himself. They'd become family to him, when he thought he'd finally convinced himself he didn't need one. 

But of course Erik wouldn’t understand that. He had a family, he had his children, and he was obviously as fiercely protective of them as Charles was of his friends. Expecting Erik to equate the two would be not only foolish but possibly insulting. Charles's blood family was a thorny tangle in his past, a dark place that could still trap him in fury and grief if he let it. But Erik had uprooted his life in a city he loved in order to honor his mother’s memory and give himself and his family closure. Trying to convince him that Charles’s affection for his employees was as fierce and loyal as his love for his family could offend him, which Charles was unwilling to do. But how could he fail to defend Alex, whose anxiety and fear weren't that dissimilar from Charles's own?

The worst part was that he couldn't even try to explain Alex's protectiveness away. _It's my fault really,_ he'd love to say, _you see, sometimes I let my affection for someone blind me to their faults, and unfortunately I'm extremely fond of you, which means I can't be trusted to make wise decisions where you're concerned..._ It was a disaster waiting to happen.

"Charles?" Erik prompted, and he realized his thoughts had turned into a long silence.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Just thinking. I suppose he might be overreacting. But that doesn’t mean I should ignore him."

Erik’s sniff was dry. "He’ll get over it. It’s the week before Christmas, Charles, you don’t have time to be thinking about this sort of melodrama. And while I appreciate the chivalrous indignation, I don’t really give much of a damn what your friends think of me so long as _you_ know I don’t mean to put you out of business."

And really, there was nothing at all that Charles could say in response to that. They said goodnight soon afterward, and Charles went to sleep not sure whether he was reassured by his conversation with Erik, or more unsettled than he'd been before. He was disquieted; a little disappointed, if he'd been willing to admit it, though he couldn't quite say why. It wasn't a surprise that Erik didn't understand Charles's feelings toward his friends-- they barely knew each other, after all. But Erik had taken the time to reassure him, hadn't mocked Charles for worrying or sounded like he thought it was strange Charles had called him. That was good, right?

Luckily, Charles was far too tired to wrestle with the issue for long. His last thought before dropping into unconsciousness was that, pathetic as it was to admit, this had been one of the most eventful weeks of his adult life.

\---

Sunday passed in a blur, and Charles left the store at five thirty feeling hollow and vaguely sick, like someone had scooped out his insides, his eyes itching with fatigue. The one shameful upside to the day was that he hadn't had to confront Alex and his disapproval; Alex was working late tonight, clearing out the back room for tomorrow's shipment, the last they'd receive before the holiday. He tried not to feel relieved, failed, and tried not to feel guilty about it instead.

Once home, he was too exhausted to scold himself into eating a real dinner, and sat in front of the Muppet Christmas Carol with a small vat of cereal balanced on his knee. _If my psych professors could see me now,_ he thought with a wry smile. 

After the Muppets were over, he switched to Looney Tunes, and was listlessly watching Sylvester attempt to get his paws on Tweety for the millionth time when a key turned in the lock and Raven let herself in. 

She didn't really come into the room, just stood in the door while she took off her coat and boots. Charles could sense her looking at him, and without moving much more than his eyes, looked up at her. She looked as worn out as he felt, if not more. 

"There's ice cream in the freezer," he offered. He knew what she craved when she was feeling like this, and tried to always keep a pint on hand in case of emergencies. 

"In December," she said, her mouth twitching with a faint effort at a smile.

"Never stopped you before," he pointed out. She shrugged admission and went toward the kitchen, returning a minute later with the tub of Coffee Heath Bar and two spoons.

"You missed the Muppets," he told her.

"And you missed a grade-A Summers meltdown," Raven told him, her expression not changing as she watched him wince. "You knew that was coming, and you didn't warn me?" she asked, her eyes finally sliding sideways to meet his.

"I didn't know he was going to say anything to the rest of you," he said, his gaze ducking away from hers and back toward the TV. "Though I suppose I should have." They were silent for a few more minutes while on the screen, the old lady's bulldog set a trap for Sylvester. "Do I even want to know what he said?"

Raven shook her head. "Nah. You'll hear it for yourself tomorrow, probably."

"Wonderful." He couldn't even summon the energy to worry about it. It was another minute or two until he spoke again, and when he did, the question surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Raven once it was out of his mouth.

"At what point should this become not worth it?" 

Raven turned all the way around on the couch to face him, her brows drawn together, concern in her blue eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Charles shrugged, dithered, finally said, "I don't know. We're very different people, Raven, and if it's going to lose me the respect of my friends..." _Maybe it would be better if he and I were just friends,_ he thought, despite his extreme disbelief that that was even possible.

"I think exhaustion has fried some of your brain cells," she said, scornful. "Lucky you you've got about a frillion to spare. But seriously, Charles. You're worried about what Alex thinks? _Alex_ doesn't even know what Alex thinks about shit from day to day. You know it took him like four months of going on dates with Armando to even admit they were dates." Charles hadn't, but the point was moot. "He _doesn't_ have many brain cells to spare-- he just reacts to everything without thinking. And if he bugged out about you and Erik, so what? He'll get over it."

"Will he?" Charles asked. He honestly couldn't have said he believed that, though the fact that Raven was the second person to tell him that didn't escape his notice.

"Charles," Raven said seriously, reaching for both his hands with hers. "I'm going to say something to you, and you need to take me seriously, okay?" Charles decided not to say that he always took her seriously, and listened. "You're very smart, and I say this out of love, but when it comes to people, most of the time you're a moron." She shook her head when he tried to protest, and kept on. 

"No one likes the idea of Erik. He came in here like the big bad wolf, okay? All you have to do is make us see that he's really just a regular guy. Which is surprisingly easy once you see the two of you together." Her mouth pursed as she fought not to smile, then gave up and let the grin crack across her face, wry but softly sincere. "You're obviously nuts about him."

"Oh God," Charles said unhappily. "Is it really obvious?"

"Probably not to him," she said, reaching up to tuck a wayward piece of his hair behind his ear. "But to me, yeah. And it will be to Alex, once you let him see it." Her voice softened. "You have to learn to trust people-- the people who are your friends. Your family."

Charles's throat felt tight, and he looked down at their joined hands. He didn't know how to explain that he felt responsible for them, felt it was his job to be someone they could all look up to-- that they could argue and bicker and gripe at each other all they wanted, but when it counted, they had to know he could be counted on to be there for them.

He was ashamed to admit it, but it had never occurred to him that they wanted to be counted on to be there for him in return. "I try," he said, the words coming out hoarse.

"I know," said Raven, letting his hands go and reaching for the ice cream again. "Try harder."

"I will," he said. He waited only a heartbeat before pulling her into a hug, and although she didn't let go of the ice cream to hug him back, she pressed her cheek hard against his, her eyes when they parted sparkling with approval.

"Can we talk about you now?" Charles asked, breaking the tension with a little chuckle. "How's Hank? Have you made up with him yet?"

Raven's laughter subsided and she sighed, looking down into the carton and shrugging one expressive shoulder. "No. He avoided me last night, I texted him... I don't know, Charles. It's shitty. I like him, and I know he likes me, and in some ways we're compatible... _really_ compatible," she added half to herself, grinning, which Charles chose to pretend he hadn't seen. "But dating? A relationship? I just don't know."

She sighed, slumping over to tuck herself in against Charles's side, and he fit his arm around her shoulders, a quiet tender feeling blooming in his heart. She rarely came to him for comfort, rarely admitted she wanted it; he hated to see her in pain, but it was a balm to think he could help ease it for her. "Perhaps it won't work out between you," he allowed, "but perhaps it will. You and Hank are friends-- you already mean a lot to one another. You already have a relationship-- dating would just change the nature of it." 

"So you're saying I'm just going to have to muddle through?"

"Unfortunately, I think you'll find that's what all romantic relationships are like."

"Hmph," Raven groused, squirming further into his side. "Some love doctor you are."

Charles laughed softly, squeezing her into a one-sided hug. "Your efforts to get people to call me Professor Sex are forever thwarted, I fear. Now here, give me that ice cream before it's all gone."

And that seemed to be the end of the conversation, until twenty minutes later when Charles was scraping the bottom of the cardboard tub with his spoon, and looked down at her with a sly smile to ask, "So what kind of pasta are you making for dinner tomorrow?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm so sorry about the absence, everyone. I had a really rough couple of months RL-wise (lost my job, death in the family, moving, blah blah) and just couldn't get back on the horse. But now the summer is over, I have a new job, and I'm saddled back up and ready to rumble! It's such a relief to be writing again, I can't even tell you. :)
> 
> Title of this chapter taken from the Civil Wars.


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